


Not Suicide

by VincentMeoblinn



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Abduction, Anal, Angst, Attempted Murder, Imprisonment, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mutual Masturbation, Night Terrors, Obsessive Behavior, Oral, PTSD John, Psychological Torture, attempted suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-18
Updated: 2013-12-29
Packaged: 2018-01-06 14:44:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 14
Words: 35,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1108088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VincentMeoblinn/pseuds/VincentMeoblinn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everyone thinks that John tried to take his own life, even Sherlock, but John insists he was attacked. Sherlock decides to believe him and catch his repeat assailant because he can’t possibly stand to see him hurt any longer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

 

 

 

 

Sherlock was doing everything he could to stop the bleeding.

_Where the hell is that damn ambulance?_

“I… I didn’t… see… a face…” John breathed; his own was as white as the bed sheets only a few feet away, his lips bloodless. Sherlock was amazed he was still conscious.

“Don’t try to talk, just breathe slowly. The ambulance will be here soon.”

Like a self-fulfilling prophecy the siren finally rent the air and Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief. It wasn’t over yet, of course, but he at least would have medically educated backup. John had drifted into unconsciousness in the time he’d taken to have those thoughts but Sherlock wasn’t fool enough to try to wake him. It was more merciful this way and he wouldn’t be pumping extra adrenalin to his heart and therefore speeding up the bleeding.

Lestrade arrived shortly after the ambulance and started questioning Sherlock while they pressed an IV into John’s wrist and started putting blood into his uninjured arm.

“Has he been depressed lately?” Lestrade asked, pen out and sympathetic face on.

Sherlock didn’t answer.

“Sherlock,” Lestrade sighed, “I’m not trying to be a dick here, but would you even notice if he was?”

_Yes. Of course I would._ _Even if I hadn’t, this isn’t the first time._

“Do you really need to ask if _I_ would notice something?”

“Yeah, since you routinely don’t notice John leaves the flat.”

“It’s not my fault he isn’t where he’s supposed to be,” Sherlock snapped.

Lestrade sighed, “Sherlock, what happened last week?”

“He has not been depressed recently. We watched a movie tonight. It was a comedy. He laughed. A lot. He had an imported beer and five slices of pizza. He joked about sleeping for a week, but I don’t believe he was trying to imply death.”

“Okay, that’s good. Last week?”

“He fell down the stairs.”

“Fuck, Sherlock, even I don’t believe that, don’t tell me you do.”

_Sherlock had been awoken by several loud bangs, the distinctive sound of someone falling down a flight of stairs. He had immediately assumed John was injured and rushed to help. When he first saw the position he’d been lying in he had immediately suspected foul play. People didn’t land quite that way unless they were pushed, but further analysis – after calling an ambulance – revealed no telltale scrape marks on the doorframe. Once the ambulance had taken a now-conscious and groaning John to the hospital he had inspected the man’s room and found no trace of another person having been there, on the stairs in front of his door, or anywhere outside the room. Yet John still appeared to have been pushed. He’d landed face down with both arms up and a bit out to the sides, still on the stairs. He appeared to have taken a shove from the shoulders and gone straight down where he’d cracked his head on a step before sliding a bit down. A stumble would have moved him further down the stairs, landing him on the floor below. Unless of course he’d just tipped forward, but John hadn’t been drinking that night. Hospital records – far too easily hacked - confirmed as much once John was checked in and the standard tests were administered._

“I questioned him and he said he remembered nothing, though he did recall waking up and thinking he wasn’t alone. The doctors at the hospital seemed to believe I’d harmed him so I ceased questioning.”

“Did you?”

“Push John down a flight of stairs last week and slit his wrist this week?”

“No, the first. I think it’s pretty obvious that he slit his own wrist, don’t you?”

“Yes. Painfully obvious.”

_“John, why? Why?” Sherlock gasped, trying desperately to slow the spurting blood. If he had been out... If he’d been further than the kitchen… If John’s bedroom door had been locked._

_“I didn’t try to kill myself, I swear! I was attacked again! I had to have been! I was asleep, Sherlock, I woke up this way!”_

_Sherlock didn’t spare him an answer; he had finally slowed the blood flow enough to pull out his phone with one hand and voice-dial for an ambulance. He then mentally went over what the wound had looked like when it had briefly been visible to him._

“It was self-inflicted, but John insists he did not try to kill himself,” Sherlock replied.

“Right, and the stairs?”

Sherlock slowly directed his gaze from the horrifying puddle of cooling blood on the floor of John’s bedroom to Lestrade’s face, trying to show him the level of rage, hate, and disgust his accusation brought up in him, but the Detective Inspector only raised an eyebrow and waited. Sherlock re-directed his glare to the blood, it probably deserved far more of his hatred.

“No. I am not abusing my flatmate and best friend. I did not push him down the stairs last week.”

“You did, however, avoid telling me what happened that night,” Lestrade prodded.

“He fell.”

“Bullshit.”

“He fell while standing stock still for no apparent reason.”

“I suppose tonight he fell on his pocket knife?”

“Apparently.”

“Okay, Sherlock, you’ve got to have a theory. What is it? What’s going on? Sleep walking? Seizures?”

“John insists he was attacked both times.”

Lestrade sighed and closed his notebook: “I’ll question John when he’s out of surgery.”

Sherlock continued to stare at the bloodstain.

A week later John was back in 221B, looking much relieved to be home and giving Sherlock a hopeful look as he sank into his favorite chair.

“So, did you figure it out?”

“Figure out what?” Sherlock stalled.

“Figure out who attacked me and why? Is it someone left over from Moriarty’s gang?”

“Moriarty didn’t have a _gang_ he had an _organization._ Honestly, John, a _gang_?”

“So you _didn’t_ find my attacker then,” John laughed, “You can just say so, Sherlock. I know you’re not a miracle worker.”

“John... I don’t want to alienate you. Could we not discuss this?”

John laughed again, and Sherlock had _missed_ that sound while he’d been in hospital.

“Since when do you not care about… oh,” John’s face darkened and he looked one part hurt and one part outraged, “You think I did it. You think I slit my own wrist!”

“The evidence would point to…”

“Damn the evidence!” John snapped, bolting to his feet. He headed to his room, leaving Sherlock once more in their empty flat.

Sherlock spent a few minutes running through various scenarios in his mind. Counselors had visited John while in St. Barts, but he had refused to speak to them and denied that he had tried to take his own life. In fact, they had restricted Sherlock from visiting because they were still concerned that he was at least partially to blame. Sherlock thought Sally Donovan might have put that idea in their funny little minds. Eventually Sherlock decided that there was only one possible course of action.

Sherlock went to his room, changed into pajamas, grabbed his pillow, and headed up to John’s room. He knocked briefly on the door before trying the knob. It was locked. He was just trying to find the leverage to break down a door that had no landing to steady himself on when John’s voice called out.

“Just a minute, Sherlock!”

Sherlock took a few deep breaths. John’s voice betrayed some embarrassment but no distress. He was surely not doing something harmful to himself.

John opened the door after a few minutes of hurried fumbling were heard and Sherlock had realized what he had interrupted even before the door opened a crack and a flushed face peered out.

“What?” John asked in an irritated voice.

_I suppose I would be too if my flatmate interrupted my first wank in over a week._

“Stakeout.”

John glanced Sherlock over and raised an eyebrow, “I think the term you’re looking for is either ‘slumber party’ or ‘suicide watch’.”

“Have you a preference?”

“Yes. I’d go with ‘piss off’.”

John slammed the door in Sherlock’s face and wasn’t even discreet about what he was going back to; Sherlock could hear the cheesy porno music and dramatic moaning through the door. Sherlock decided to try again later. Unless John was interested in erotic asphyxiation he doubted he’d harm himself while jerking off. After about 30 minutes, when he decided the man was either finished or pushing the envelope towards unhealthy, he headed back up and knocked on the door. A loud groan of frustration greeted him.

“Go away Sherlock! I’m not going to off myself!”

“No, but you might be attacked again, and I have no intention of letting what is clearly the most intelligent criminal I’ve ever come across kill you right under my nose,” Sherlock called through the door.

There was a pause and then John opened the door. He sighed and leaned against the frame, his sleep pants slung low over his hips and his chest bare.

“You don’t really believe that, do you?”

“I want to. Do you think it’s easy for me thinking you’re both suicidal and lying to me about it?”

“I think you’re more concerned with evidence than people.”

“Well, usually you’d be right,” Sherlock conceded with a self-depreciating smirk, “but this time you’re wrong.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s you.”

John gave Sherlock a weary but grateful smile and stepped aside. Sherlock slipped into the room and tossed his pillow onto the bed, taking the outside without consulting John. John chuckled and shook his head.

“I do appreciate this, Sherlock, but I doubt anyone would come in with us both here.”

“Well, then you’ll have to get a bigger bed. We’ll end up with back problems if we sleep cramped in this tiny thing for more than a few nights.”

“You can’t honestly,” John laughed, “expect to babysit me for the rest of our lives, Sherlock.”

“Well… I suppose you might marry some day, but at the moment the most difficult aspect is that I don’t sleep as much as you do. How do you feel about sleeping on the couch while I run experiments and play my violin and such?”

John groaned, “Your experiments stink and your violin playing already keeps me awake from _here_ let alone while in the same room!”

“Earplugs will assist with the latter. I’ll work on the first.”

John sighed and rubbed at the back of his head, “We’ll discuss this tomorrow. I’m tired. I’m going to shower and brush my teeth.”

“Fine,” Sherlock stated, tugging John’s laptop off of his nightstand to keep himself amused.

“No don’t…”

Too late. Sherlock grimaced at the lewd image paused on the screen and then closed it while John flushed and fled the room.

Sherlock went looking for him when John didn’t return within the normal time limit of his bedtime routine. He was in the kitchen, first aid kit on the table in front of him, seated and very pale. Sherlock was across the room and looking him over before he fully registered that his feet had moved.

“What happened?”

“Nothing,” John sighed.

“You’ve three bandaged fingers, what happened?!” Sherlock shouted, shaking him violently.

“Don’t yell at me! Let me go!”

Sherlock stepped back, appalled at his own behavior: “Just tell me what happened this time. Please?”

“It was an accident,” John snapped, looking frustrated, “I slipped while cutting up some fruit for a bedtime snack.”

Sherlock blinked and saw the lie for what it was, but if John was such a poor liar than why had the previous lies not registered? A glance around the room showed that he was not only a poor liar, but also an abysmal one.

“John, there is no fruit on the counter. You made a sandwich. You were cutting it in half with a butcher knife. You sliced your fingers while doing so. Intentionally or unintentionally?”

“Neither! It was an accident!”

“Unintentionally then.”

“Yes! Dammit, unintentionally!”

 “Very well, do you need to go to hospital?”

John blinked, “That’s it?”

“Yes. Hospital?”

“No. I’m fine. I stitched them up myself.”

“Good. Bed?”

“Yeah, I’ll just… toss my blood-soaked sandwich, brush my teeth, and be right up.”

“Actually, save the sandwich. It will make a fun experiment.”

“Tosser,” John snickered, rolling his eyes, “Fridge?”

“Please.”

John complied and Sherlock watched him walk into the bathroom before pulling out his mobile and texting Lestrade.

**Have solved the John injury mystery. – SH**

**What was it? - GL**

**‘Is it’. – SH**

**Fine, what IS IT? - GL**

**He is harming himself to get my attention and creating ‘assailants’ to keep it. – SH**

**No way. You’re sure? – GL**

**Yes. When I insisted on sharing his room with him tonight in order to ‘protect him’ he went downstairs and cut up his fingers with a butcher’s knife. Then he waited for me to notice he’d been gone too long and come looking for him. I found him sitting next to a blood-soaked sandwich and knife claiming he slipped while cutting fruit. – SH**

**Why is he doing this? - GL**

**And how do we stop him? - GL**

**I already explained: to get my attention. I have no idea how to stop him. Isn’t that more your area? – SH**

**Not so much, no. Sounds like a shrink’s area. – GL**

**Irrelevant. He won’t see a therapist. – SH**

**Well you’re going to have to convince him. Either that or follow him around for a change. – GL**

**Tedious. – SH**

**That’s your best mate, Sherlock! – GL**

**Still tedious. I will have to find another solution. – SH**

John returned at that moment and Sherlock slipped his mobile back into his dressing robe pocket. He gave John a grin and they headed up to bed together. John climbed in first and Sherlock sat beside him, hesitated a moment, and then turned to face him. He pulled his legs up to sit Indian style and took a deep breath.

“John, I need to know if you are in any way sexually attracted to me.”

“Wha… No! I mean, you’re fine for a bloke, but… Sherlock if you’re not comfortable with this you don’t have to do it.”

“That isn’t my concern. This,” Sherlock gestured to his body, “Is just transport. Having sex with you would be no hardship, but I want to know where we stand before we share a bed.”

“We’ve ‘shared a bed’ during cases, you never asked me this then. What’s changed?” John asked, clearly bewildered.

“I had no reason before to suspect then that you had repressed homosexual tendencies.”

“And you do now?” John asked, still looking lost.

“Yes.”

_“Why?”_

“Because I’ve figured out who is harming you and why you insist it wasn’t you.”

“Well who…” John started, and then stilled, a look of horrified comprehension dawning on his face, “You still think it was me, don’t you?”

“Yes and no.”

“You think I’ve gone round the bend!” John accused.

“I think you have a legitimate illness, John, and that it can be treated. I am willing to make it as easy for you as possible, and if that includes being intimate with you then-”

“Then it will be no hardship,” John interrupted, looking as though he might be ill, “So I have… what? Some sort of weird twist on the Angel of Mercy?”

“I suppose that’s as good a term as any. You want my attention and are trying to give me a case to make me happy so you are harming yourself and creating an assailant for me to chase.”

“I’m not. Sherlock I swear to you I’m not doing that!” John replied, looking angry and hurt in turns.

“I didn’t say you were aware of it,” Sherlock said softly, trying to look comforting.

“Get out,” John hissed, pushing at Sherlock until he had to either get up off the bed or topple off.

“John…”

“Get out! I don’t need or want your pity, and I’m not trying to seduce you by _hurting_ _myself!_ ”

“John, please…”

“No! Fuck off, Sherlock! You won’t take me seriously? Fine! I can understand you not believing I was attacked, but _this?_ This is just fucking humiliating!”

“There’s no shame in having a mental illness, John, with the life you’ve lead and the things you’ve seen-”

“OUT!”

John picked up a cricket bat from the floor and advanced on Sherlock with his face twisted in rage. Sherlock backed away; hands held out to ward him off while his mind frantically sought out a non-violent answer. He slid his robe off his shoulders and smiled at John with lowered eyelids. John faltered, a shocked look on his face. Encouraged, Sherlock stripped his vest off and dropped it to the floor before running his hands over his chest. John’s eyes bugged and he lowered the bat while taking a step forward, hunger in his eyes.

Then they closed off.

“No. Not like this. Get out,” John stated sadly, his voice calm.

“John-“

“Out. Please,” John pleaded, “Give me some small amount of dignity, won’t you?”

Sherlock didn’t know how to respond to this John so he nodded and left. When he reached the 2nd floor landing he pulled out his mobile and texted Lestrade.

**I’ve bungled it. He insists my solution is inaccurate but displayed attraction to me despite arguing he had none. He may be too deeply repressed. – SH**

**What can I do? – GL**

**Come over and reason with him. Isn’t that what you usually do for me? – SH**

**Intervention? – GL**

**If you like. – SH**

Sherlock sat outside John’s door on the top step and listened to him moving about. It took about ten minutes to recognize the sound of a suitcase being opened and things being stuffed inside. John was planning on leaving, probably to save face. Sherlock could work with that. Some time away would probably be healthy and perhaps Lestrade would convince him to get help. Then John brought out another suitcase.

_Not going away for a bit, moving out!_

Sherlock stood up and banged on the door, suddenly panicked. John couldn’t leave. What would he do without him? Things had been perfect the way they’d been! Why had he spoken? He should have just shut up and kissed him! It all might have been resolved after a good shag!

“Fuck’s sake Sherlock!” John snapped, tugging the door open and scowling at Sherlock.

“You can’t move out. I need you.”

John laughed ruefully, “That is an undeniable fact. I saw the state of the kitchen.”

“Then why are you packing up?”

“Because I _can’t_ stay, Sherlock. You see that, don’t you? This is… unhealthy! You depend on me for everything, and when I have a legitimate problem you… you…”

“I’ll figure something out! I’ll find a different solution. I just have to search your room again. Maybe while you were moving things you uncovered a clue.” Sherlock was well aware he was pleading, but John seemed to be relenting so he swallowed his pride.

“Fine.”

Sherlock slipped into the room and cast about desperately. There had to be _something_ here he could trick John with.

“When is the last time you wore those shoes?” Sherlock asked, even though he knew the answer.

“Before I went to hospital, er, about… eight days ago?”

“Get me my kit. I need to scrape some dirt off of it.”

John hurried down to Sherlock’s bedroom while he cast about for something else to stall John. He grabbed some dirt off the cricket bat and pressed it into the groove around the window.

“John! Come see this!” Sherlock called just as John was stomping back up the stairs.

“What?”

“Someone’s come through this window!”

The look of exhilaration on John’s face was such a relief to Sherlock that he grinned from ear to ear. Then the bell rang.

_Lestrade!_

“I’ll get it,” Sherlock stated as casually as possible.

“No, you keep looking. I will.”

Sherlock winced and stood in the doorway as John babbled to Lestrade that Sherlock had found evidence that someone had been in his rooms.

“Seriously?” Lestrade asked, taking the stairs two at a time, “You found something?”

“Ah, yes. Yes, if you’ll look here. Clear evidence someone came through his window.”

Lestrade leaned forward; eyes narrowed, and studied the mud on the sill. Sherlock ignored him despite his growing apprehension and set about looking for more ‘evidence’. Surely Lestrade would see right through it…

“Thank goodness!” Lestrade breathed, “I was seriously worried, John. This clears it all up! I’m sorry I doubted you, mate.”

“I was starting to doubt me,” John laughed airily, “Thank gods for Sherlock.”

Sherlock declared the room clear of any more ‘clues’ and they collected samples of what he’d found.

“I’ll take these to the lab tomorrow morning. John’s tired tonight; I want him to get rest. He’s only just out of hospital,” Sherlock told Lestrade.

“No! I’m fine! I want this solved. Let’s go now,” John insisted, digging through his chest of drawers for some jeans.

John wouldn’t be detained so the two residents of 221B got dressed and then drove to St. Bart’s in Lestrade’s car. He snoozed in a corner while they ran tests, apparently too interested in the results to take off. He had muttered something about ‘arresting the bastard’ before dawn. Sherlock was at a loss. He knew of a good many criminals who had never been caught and deserved to be framed for John’s actions, but what if they continued after the fact? Perhaps it would be enough to show John he believed him?

Hours later and John was sleeping with his head pillowed on one arm and the other stretched above his head. Unable to resist, Sherlock slipped around him and peered at the stitched up wound on John’s arm. It was much mangled from the work done on it, but it was still quite clearly self-inflicted. John had held the knife in his dominant hand and slit from outside to in; John could only have done the angle and depth. Even someone holding the knife from behind him wouldn’t have had the same results. Only the fact he’d missed the veins and not cut very deeply had saved him from bleeding out before Sherlock – and the ambulance – could get to him. He had screamed for help. Sherlock remembered that vividly. He’d been working on an experiment and had just turned off the burner (thank goodness!) when John had screamed his name in absolute terror. He had sounded genuinely afraid of dying. When Sherlock had reached him he’d been pressing his wrist down on the bedroom floor in an attempt to stop the bleeding.

Had he panicked after it had been done? Had he meant only to create a shallow cut? What if John were really self-mutilating and had slipped? It would explain the lies that weren’t lies. It would explain why he kept doing it. Self-harm was generally a secretive act, he wouldn’t want to share it and he genuinely wouldn’t be suicidal. He _might_ , however, want Sherlock to figure it out and get him the help he really needed.

_I need more data_. Sherlock realized, _I can’t afford to confront him again._

When morning came Sherlock told them both he’d found little info. The mud had been from the fields where John and his mates played rugby but none of them fit the profile. He questioned John about fans or family of friends but he had no suspicious figures to point the blame to. John seemed frustrated and suggested setting up another game and having Sherlock watch.

“That’s not a bad idea, actually, but no one will buy you setting it up so soon after being injured. Best wait,” Sherlock advised while Lestrade nodded beside him.

_That will give me time to figure you out more_.

XXXXXXXXXXX

Two weeks later and Sherlock was still at a loss. John’s behavior had turned almost cheerful. They shared a bed each night, platonically, and spent almost every waking moment together. Finally, Sherlock shared his many theories with Lestrade, who was furious that he’d tricked him.

“What if he’d tried it again in the mean time?”

“I can’t hold him hostage. He was going to _leave!_ ” Sherlock insisted.

“I suppose, but now what?” Lestrade asked, keeping his voice down low so John wouldn’t hear them discussing him from the shower.

“We’ll…”

The bathroom door opened and John left the bathroom, passed into the kitchen, then used that door to go into the hall and up the stairs.

Sherlock stood and glanced into the kitchen, surprised John had left the shower running and all the doors in between open. Then he saw the water on the floor. Then he glanced up and saw John descending the stairs in all his naked and wet glory… with a gun in his hand.

“John?” Sherlock asked in alarm, “John, just settle down. You don’t want to do anything you’ll regret.”

John was holding the gun in both hands in front of him, his legs bent low as though he were creeping up on someone. His eyes were narrow and his face rigid.

John raised a hand to his ear and mimed pressing a button before whispering: “I can see the target, UJ.”

_Oh my gods._

Lestrade had come around the corner; seen John with his gun aimed at Sherlock and drew his own as quick as lightening.

“You don’t want to do this John. Put it down. Nice and easy,” Lestrade ordered.

Sherlock remained frozen, not sure how John would react to having his waking nightmare confront him back.

John froze, eyes widening, and bolted for the doorway to their sitting room, slamming into it with his shoulder with enough force to splinter the wood and free him.

“I’ve been spotted! Mayday! Mayday! Request evac!”

“The hell?” Lestrade questioned.

Sherlock chased after him, squirming out of Lestrade’s one-armed grip, and suffered a blow to the back of the head as a result. John had gone behind the door and hit him with the butt of his gun.

“Don’t you move fucker!!” John shouted, pointing the gun at Sherlock’s head again.

“I surrender!” Sherlock shouted, and then repeated it in several Middle Eastern dialects just for good measure.

Lestrade was in the doorway, gun focused on John so Sherlock shouted at them both: “Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot!”

Lestrade hesitated.

“I’m sorry. He won’t let me take hostages. I’m truly sorry,” John whispered.

John pulled the trigger. Sherlock rolled. Lestrade shouted and tackled him.

The gun never went off.

Empty.

John fought like a wild thing, screaming and biting and kicking until Lestrade and Sherlock managed to pin him.

“WHY?! WHY?! I took an oath! I never wanted to hurt anyone! _I took an oath!!”_

John began to beat his head against the floor, screaming and sobbing hysterically. Sherlock grabbed a pillow and stuffed it under his head. He continued to slam it backwards, but was effectively stopped form injuring himself.

“Flash back?” Lestrade asked Sherlock.

“Oh, you think?” Sherlock asked sardonically.

John suddenly stilled beneath them and Sherlock looked down at him in alarm.

“What are you? Get off me!” John insisted, and with a nod from Sherlock they both complied, “Where the hell are my clothes?”

John wrapped his arms around himself, shivering miserably and looking around in confusion.

“You had a flashback,” Sherlock sighed, “That’s your invisible assailant, John. It was you, it just… wasn’t.”

“You… no… you fixed my PTSD. I barely even have nightmares anymore.”

“The human mind isn’t that simple,” Sherlock sighed, fetching John a tartan and tossing it around his shoulders, “I tricked you into dismissing your psychosomatic limp, but I did not in any way cure you.”

Sherlock helped John onto the couch. Mrs. Hudson had hurried up the stairs in alarm and was now hovering in the doorway looking frightened.

“Some tea, if you please. Lestrade I think you had better call the hospital and get the good doctor a room.”

“Why is my gun down here, Sherlock?” John asked, real fear in his voice.

“Not important.”

“Not impo…!”

“You were an army doctor, John, correct?”

“Yes.”

“Did you ever deviate from that?”

“Well, no. If you’re a doctor, you’re a doctor.”

“Yes, but you’re also a crack shot, small of stature – which is an advantage in stealth – and smarter than the average grunt soldier.”

“Are you… what are you asking me?”

“Did you ever take a mission? One that required you to… to break your Hippocratic Oath?” Sherlock asked, tensing in case those very words sent him over the edge.

“No.”

“No?” Sherlock asked in surprise.

“No, Sherlock. I was a doctor. Plain and simple. I got shot while trying to patch a soldier up on the run. We were moving camp and came under fire. Plain and simple.”

“You said you had bad days.”

“Sorry?”

“Just before we met The Woman you said you had bad days. You said: ‘You forget, Sherlock. I was a soldier, I killed people. I had bad days.’”

“I… I vaguely remember saying that,” John insisted.

“Do you remember it, or don’t you? It’s very important we find out how long and how often you’ve been having these flashbacks.”

Mrs. Hudson arrived with the tea tray and Lestrade came in from the hall.

“Bed waiting for him,” Lestrade sighed, “Let’s go, John. I’ll drive you.”

“He’s not had his tea yet,” Mrs. Hudson insisted, pressing the cuppa in to John’s hand.

“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson,” John smiled gratefully and sipped it deeply despite the burn.

“John?” Sherlock insisted.

“Yes, I recall saying that, but I didn’t mean anything by it, Sherlock. Sure, I shot people; I had to defend myself. I don’t lose sleep over that and I never have.”

“What you were saying when you came down the stairs-“

“With my gun,” John stated softly, a pained look on his face.

Sherlock nodded to confirm his suspicion: “You were speaking as though you were on a mission to kill a specific person.”

“What did I say _exactly_?” John asked, apprehension in his eyes.

“I don’t want to trigger-“

“ _Sherlock_ , please.”

Sherlock repeated his words back to him, but John only shook his head in confusion.

“He might have repressed it,” Lestrade offered, “I know a few boys on the force who have entire years missing from their time in the army.”

“A possibility.”

“I haven’t noticed any memory gaps,” John replied, shaking his head, “And why risk an army doctor? We’re rare enough as it is.”

“True,” Sherlock wondered, “Unless someone decided you were dispensable. Someone who would use a codename like UJ. You specified ‘he’… UJ… UJ…”

Sherlock stood up and paced the room.

“I know this. It’s on the tip of my…”

Sherlock froze, looking at the pillow sitting beside John. His Union Jack pillow.

“Mycroft.”

“Sorry?” John asked in confusion.

“John, what happened while I was away?”

“You mean after you faked your death and left me convinced you’d killed yourself for a year?”

“Three years.”

John blinked.

“Three years, John. Not one,” Sherlock insisted at his confused look.

“That’s not right. I married Mary Morstan two weeks after your death- everyone freaked out because it was so soon. She died on the tube nine months later and I moved back into 221B to be closer to your things. Then you came back a few months later.”

“Shit,” Lestrade swore, and then apologized to Mrs. Hudson.

“Indeed,” Sherlock agreed softly.

“You’re telling me I’m missing two years of my life?” John asked, and then groaned, “That really explains the awkward stares at my last birthday dinner with Harry.”

“Kept insisting you were two years younger?”

“Apparently, yes… don’t laugh!”

“Sorry,” Sherlock smirked.

“Sherlock!” Lestrade scolded, “He’s missing _two years_ of his life!”

“Yes, yes! I’m on it.”

Sherlock pulled out his phone and dialed quickly, “Mycroft, what did you do to my flatmate while I was out?”

“I want to talk to him,” John insisted, toddling over with the blanket wrapped around him.

“You see, that _would_ sound plausible if he weren’t having flashbacks,” Sherlock continued, easily keeping the phone away from the awkwardly bundled John Watson.

Sherlock paused in his game of keep-away to listen intently before hanging up.

“Get dressed, John, and pack a bag. He wants you in Lethoa.”

“Where?”

“The same rehab clinic I was sent to a few months before we met. They’re quite good, you’ll be happier there than St. Bart’s, and you’ll get better treatment.”

“Sherlock, I am not on drugs!”

“They rehabilitate for more than drug use, John,” Sherlock insisted, gripping his arms tightly, “Go get dressed.”

John sighed and headed out the door, returning dressed and with an overnight bag.

“Now will you explain?”

“Mycroft will, I suppose. I’ll be going with you for the ride – and the explanation – but I won’t be able to visit you once you’re in therapy.”

“You really think they can help me?” John asked worriedly.

“Yes, I do,” Sherlock bussed John’s forehead, causing him to blush, “Now let’s not keep them waiting. The car is downstairs already.”

Mycroft watched John carefully as they got into the car.

“Flashbacks, Sherlock? You’re certain?”

“Yes, that was what they appeared to be. An explanation would be nice, _dear brother_ ,” Sherlock growled threateningly.

Mycroft sighed, “You didn’t really think you were taking out Moriarty’s network all on your own, did you?”

“Not really, no.”

“Good, I was worried you’d lost your touch. John was recruited for MI5 shortly after his marriage failed. He was depressed, suicidal, and completely lost without you.”

John bristled, but Mycroft hadn’t said it mockingly as he might have. In fact, his eyes remained firmly on Sherlock.

“He went on many missions and seemed better for it. He was self-assured, in control, and felt as though he were getting revenge for you. He was ruthless. I quite admired him,” Mycroft admitted, flashing John a respectful smile.

John returned it with a weak one of his own; Sherlock thought he looked alarmed.

“So what went wrong?”

“Bad intelligence, as is usually the case with these things. A target was chosen, but our mole mixed up the weekends that he usually had his children visiting on. They were there when John took him out.”

“No,” John whispered gripping his overnight bag tightly, “Tell me they didn’t see.”

Mycroft gave John a pitying look, “Perhaps it would be best if this came out in therapy. The doctor you will be seeing has full clearance. Perhaps with hypnosis…”

“Tell me, you bastard,” John whispered.

“You were on the radio with me, of course. I monitored your every move personally,” Sherlock nodded his approval of this tactic and Mycroft acknowledged it before continuing, “You told me you had to get out; that the mission was compromised. I asked why and you told me the children were there, that the youngest was sleeping in his bed. I told you to take the shot anyway.”

John was shaking his head, a look of horror on his face.

“You refused,” Mycroft replied, then gave John a sad look when he relaxed a bit, “But I insisted. I told you that I would give you important information about Sherlock if you simply took that shot. You debated for over an hour and then shot the man. Though you never described what happened after that to me, I could hear the child screaming over the communicator.”

John took a stuttering breath, but then nodded for him to continue.

“You were spotted on your way out by the oldest child – a teenager apparently. He pulled a gun on you. You managed to shoot the gun out of the boy’s hand, but he saw your face. I ordered you to kill him. He begged you to spare his life. You followed my orders.”

“Oh, gods,” John whispered, face pale. He put a hand over his mouth as though he would be ill.

“ _My_ orders, John. You did as you were told; like a good soldier. If you had been compromised you never would have seen Sherlock again. They’d have slaughtered you in your bed. You were only safe because everyone thought you were moping at home instead of helping me.”

“I still can’t remember,” John told Sherlock.

“That’s to be expected,” Sherlock insisted, gripping his hand tightly.

They pulled up in front of the rehab facility, which looked a good deal more like a mansion. John was welcomed in and wheeled away while Sherlock watched from the doorway.

“I’ll never forgive you for this,” Sherlock informed Mycroft, “You were supposed to keep him safe for me.”

“He would have killed himself.”

“He might still.”

“Not if you tell him the truth.”

“What truth would that be?”

“That you love him.”

Mycroft turned and walked down the stone steps leading up to Lethoa. After several minutes Sherlock took a deep breath and followed. The ride back was long and silent, punctuated only by the flash of streetlamps as they passed them by. Sherlock left the car without a word and strode up to the flat. Lestrade was passed out on the couch and Mrs. Hudson was doing dishes in the sink. Sherlock walked up to John’s room and stretched out on his bed, hugging the man’s pillow to his chest and breathing in his scent.

“I won’t ever leave you again.”

[CHAPTER TWO](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/39633.html)


	2. Chapter 2

 

[ **vincentmeoblinn** ](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/)

It was awkward. Lethoa was a rehab facility, so most of the occupants were schwanky rich people. He was fairly certain that ‘Miss White’ was part of the royal family, but he rarely watched the tele enough to know for certain. One thing that _was_ certain was that he stuck out like a sore thumb. The first three days it wasn’t too obvious because he was wearing scrubs, as was standard for all new patients, and simply behaved like a military man. After that he was back to his scruffy shirts and worn jumpers and it became instantly obvious that he hadn’t a cent to his name.

John had been scraping the bottom of the barrel while Sherlock had been ‘gone’, working the clinic and drowning his sorrows in booze… and apparently bloodshed, but he still didn’t remember that. When Sherlock returned he instantly had a pile of cases thrust on him and soon had a small bit of wealth re-built. He made no comment on the funds John had squandered away in his absence, and it was entirely likely he simply didn’t really understand the value of a pound.

It was awkward. Awkward because he had realized within a month of Sherlock being ‘back’ that he was a worthless human being, that he had less intrinsic value than the skull on the mantel because at least the _skull_ didn’t consume resources! It was awkward because he didn’t fit in anywhere now that he was out of the military, and had no urge to go back in and leave Sherlock and 221B behind. Awkward because he didn’t know how to express himself in _this_ therapy, not any more than he had in the one-on-one sessions all those years ago. Awkward because he felt he was letting Sherlock down by sitting silently every day while others around them bared their souls. Awkward, especially, because Sherlock had ‘infiltrated’ the rehab under an assumed name and a hipster disguise and was having no trouble whatsoever with soul bearing.

“It’s just that I felt so utterly _out of control,”_ Sherlock fumed, “My mind goes at a hundred miles an hour at times, and like a vehicle turned too sharply, it tends to drift. I’ve left people I care about behind, betrayed, because I’m too busy chasing other goals. I can’t _focus_ , and sometimes the cocaine would _give me_ that focus. Narrow-minded and almost maddening, but focus, nonetheless.”

“Sigerson,” The therapist called Sherlock, “You must realize that it wasn’t _true_ focus. What the cocaine gave you was a _distraction_. You weren’t better off, if anything you were worse off because your friends were put off by your drug use. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”

Sherlock sighed, “Yes. I’d started stealing to maintain my habit. I’ve hut so many people, but I’ve only ever wanted to be _useful_.”

“You’ve used that term before, what makes you think you aren’t useful?”

“I generally laze about, I’m afraid, writing music and ignoring people around me; at least I do when I’m not working, which is often since The Work is infrequent. Most people are so frightfully _dull_ that I can’t stand to be around them. Except Hamish, of course.”

John blushed. Sherlock’s little code was… embarrassing. True, no one knew that Sherlock was talking about _him_ , but _John_ knew, and it was more than a bit disconcerting. Their friendship had crossed a line before John went into Lethoa; they had been sleeping wrapped in each other’s arms, but there it had stalled. Sherlock had flirted with him just that once, but it was to get his way rather than to actually be intimate with him. He still had no idea if Sherlock was even remotely interested in him… except when he spoke about ‘Hamish’. At that point, Sherlock’s eyes would flicker warmly and he would look less frustrated. John was not sure if this was _real_ or _planned_ , but it warmed his heart anyway and he always found himself smiling and blushing.

“Hamish is quite important to you, you’ve made that clear, but you haven’t told us much about him. Is he a friend? Or something more?”

“I suppose something more, but we’ve never been intimate if that’s what you mean,” Sherlock shrugged, “He’s firmly heterosexual, though we’ve perhaps crossed a boundary or two. He finds me attractive, any dunce could see that, but he’s never pursued that interest and I haven’t pushed it.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t want to damage what we have. He’s the only person… alive… who understands me. He treats me like glass at times, but sometimes I need that. He’s never supported my habit; in fact he’s searched my rooms more than once to get rid of my stash. Never found it, of course. He’s interesting, but he isn’t anymore intelligent than anyone else.”

There were eye-rolls all around the room at that, though the therapist held herself back; more than one person had come under Sherlock’s scathing tongue since he checked in a week ago. Not John. Sherlock and he had done no more than meet eyes the first time Sherlock had shown up at therapy, and they hadn’t done that since.

“John?” The therapist called.

John sighed.

“John would you like to share anything today?”

John hazarded a glance at Sherlock but he was giving the window a bored look.

“No, thanks.”

“John, it’s been over a week now. I really do need to insist you begin to share with us. Especially since your one-on-one sessions haven’t been going particularly well.”

“I’m just not really… I don’t even properly _remember_ what brought me here, I mean I do know _why_ I’m here, but I don’t remember two years of my life so… I don’t really have anything to say.”

Sherlock snorted and the therapist gave him a warning glance, which he ignored.

“You must have _something_ to discuss,” Sherlock jumped in, “Perceived faults? Repressed sexual desires?”

“Sigerson…” The therapist warned.

“Perhaps some unexpressed childhood angst?” Sherlock continued.

“Oh, yes, that. Mummy didn’t love me and daddy was never there,” John snipped.

“Something besides an obvious untruth,” Sherlock sighed.

“Well I have got this bloody _annoying_ flatmate who’s constantly in my business and has no concept of privacy whatsoever.”

“Maybe he’s concerned about you.”

“Maybe he’s a git.”

“Maybe he loves you.”

“Maybe he… loves me?”

“Possibly. Just a deduction, mind you.”

“He… he…” John fumed. Sherlock raised one dyed-red eyebrow just above his stereotypical thick black glasses and waited. His beard shouldn’t have made him look good, damn it, but it did.

“He what?” Sherlock challenged.

“He’s a fucking _addiction_ is what he is!” John snapped, earning himself insulted looks from the recovering addicts around him, “Don’t look at me like that! You have _no idea!!_ He waltzed into my life right when I needed him, right when the gun in my bedsit was starting to look damn good, and I fell head over bloody heels for him. Not sexually, mind you, but I moved in with him _the next day_. I follow him everywhere, through dangerous situations, risking his life and mine, and when I’m not following him _he’s following me_! He’s bloody here _now!_ ”

“He’s here now? In the room with us?” The therapist questioned.

“Yes! In fucking disguise, the bastard! Did I mention he has _no concept of privacy?!_ When I’m not sabotaging my own relationships by leaving women to go after him whenever he crooks his finger- and I’m not exaggerating, I once left a woman _naked and willing_ when he texted me- then he’s committing acts of bloody _relationship terrorism_ like insulting them to their faces and all but chasing them from our flat!”

“Fascinating, what does he look like?” She queried again.

John blinked a moment, then groaned, “I’m not hallucinating him, I…”

“I’d like you to continue this in your private session, is that okay, John?”

“Perfect, yeah, that’s just bloody _perfect_.”

John stood up and left the group, retreating to his little private room with it’s bland walls and that one ridiculously optimistic photograph of a sunrise on the wall; the plaque beneath it called it ‘Hope’. John hoped the artist had found work he had better talent in.

XXX

“I realize you don’t recall an entire two years, but what is the last thing you recall before the gap? Before you walked into your flat and found Sherlock had followed you up – which is when your memories resumed – what was going on? Walk me through your days.”

Dr. Franklin was quite possibly the most vexing of doctors John had ever run across. He was relentless in his pursuit of John’s participation in therapy; which was admittedly his job, but still didn’t make John feel very relaxed around him.

“I… I don’t know. I went back to having no life. Sherlock had left me a mess of money, all the funds we…he… made solving cases. At first I thought I’d publish my stories about him, including ones that weren’t on the blog, and really make sure people knew how spectacular he was. Then I started drinking. I recognized that as a problem first thing– I’ve told you about Harry- but I just cut back on it and added gambling in to take up more of my time. I spent almost all my free time buzzed and throwing away his hard earned money. Oh, and in a pointless, emotionless marriage to a woman who died after about nine months.”

“You feel guilty about that?”

“Immensely, but it’s hardly going to amount to anything. The one time I tried to bring it up he looked at me as though he didn’t know what I was talking about. I think he honestly doesn’t know that he had a good deal of money squirreled away!”

“I meant… never-mind. Sherlock… is the flatmate you mentioned in therapy today?”

“Yes.”

“The one who has,” The doctor flipped through his papers, “’infiltrated’ the hospital?”

“Yes,” John swallowed uncomfortably.

“The same one who was there every time you harmed yourself?”

“And that I nearly shot, yes.”

“The same who jumped off of a roof three years ago?”

 “Yes.”

“You mentioned that you wanted to… memorialize him,” Dr. Franklin made a sweeping, circular motion with his hands, “So that the entire world would know his brilliance.”

“Yes.”

“Are you doing that now?”

“I don’t follow,” John admitted.

“Are you trying to draw attention to him? Admittedly he was a sensation at one point, but many people are still on the fence about his guilt or innocence in regards to one ‘Richard Brook’.”

“He proved that. He proved all of that, and I can prove it too,” John snapped, angrily, “Just pull up your computer. It’s all there on my blog and…”

“John, you don’t need to defend him to me, the question is: do you need to defend him to _yourself_?”

“No! I know the truth!” John was on his feet now, angry and shouting, “I’m the one who defended him! I’m the one who refused to believe the lies. _I saw him jump_! He was in tears! He did it to protect me, and Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade…”

“John! John! Listen to yourself!”

John paused, confused, “Okay, what? I’ve a short temper, I…”

 “You’re still angry with him.”

“Bloody damn well _right_ I’m still angry with him!”

“Have you told him?”

John thought back a bit: “Yes.”

“Has he apologized?”

“Well… in a Sherlockian way: he told me he didn’t think I’d be hurt.”

 “By him jumping off of a building in front of you and leaving you to think he was dead for three years?”

John grinned despite himself, “You don’t know Sherlock. The man could deduce the color of your pants, your last meal, your sexual preference, and why you hate a certain type of music and still not know why you’re annoyed by him.”

John flopped down on the couch and sighed.

“The last thing I remember,” John admitted finally, “Was standing on the roof of St. Bart’s looking down at the spot Sherlock landed when he jumped. There wasn’t even a stain there, and I was wondering if I could re-create it. I thought that if I got a brick to stand on to make me the same height, and then tipped forward the same way he did, and did it on a day with the _exact_ wind speed and direction, then I could leave the same blood spatter on the pavement.”

“What happened after that?”

“I was standing in our flat and Sherlock was there. He was standing on top of the remnants of a disguise and waiting for me to clap my hands as though he were a street performer just done a magnificent trick.”

“What did you do?”

“Punched him. Cried. Hugged him. Told him off. Made tea.”

“And that was when he sort-of apologized.”

“Ahhh, before the tea, yeah.”

“Nothing in between?”

“No.”

“Do you recall who, if anyone, stopped you from jumping?”

“No.”

“Do you remember speaking to a friend, perhaps if you close your eyes you can hear their voice or smell their perfume or cologne?”

John didn’t close his eyes; he just stared at the man in silence, jaw squared and stubborn streak showing.

“I really think you should reconsider hypnotism, John. It really is the fastest route if you aren’t willing to work through your issues with talk therapy.”

“Could I have someone here?” John asked, the thought just occurring to him, “Could I have Sherlock here?”

“I thought you said Sherlock was _already_ here.”

“Yes,” John sighed while rolling his eyes, “but could I have him _in the room with me_ when you hypnotize me.”

“He isn’t here now?”

John licked his lips and tried not to scream: “No.”

“Would you like to go and get him?” The doctor asked agreeably.

“Yes. Yes I would.”

John stood up and stomped out of the room, but instead of going to look for Sherlock he went back to his own room and looked for something to do.

Laundry. The patients had to do a few chores themselves, a way to make them feel useful and keep them active. John collected his clothes in a basket and hurried down the hall to the laundry. There was a guard stationed in there whenever the room was unlocked to keep someone from drinking the detergent, but he wasn’t the only occupant today. Sherlock was there.

The git was frowning at the directions on the side of the bottle as though he’d never done a load of laundry in his life. He might not have, for all John knew; Sherlock had always sat around and waited for someone else to do things for him, and people usually did because it seemed… _expected._

John stepped into the room and dumped his clothes in the machine. Since there wasn’t enough for a full load he reached over and grabbed Sherlock’s. The guard narrowed his eyes, but when Sherlock didn’t put up a fuss he didn’t intervene. John took the detergent out of Sherlock’s hands after that and dumped the required amount in the cup before starting the cycle on cold so as not to stain their whites with the few colored garments also in the machine.

“Are all detergents filled with so many useless ingredients?” Sherlock asked.

“I assume so.”

“It’s a waste of resources,” Sherlock groused, “and likely to cause allergic reactions in more people.”

“Well, I’m sure you can figure out a better option, and then I’ll wash our clothes in that.”

“Mmm, it will have to wait.”

“It doesn’t have to. You could always check out and go home now.”

“I’m not leaving you again. Not ever.”

John glanced over at the guard and noted his earphones and the soft sounds in the air; he wouldn’t be able to hear a thing.

“Sherlock, you do realize we aren’t actually _together_ , don’t you? I prefer women. I’m sorry if I made you think otherwise, but I was in a bad place and I needed you, but _not like that_.”

“You do realize you mentioned being in love with me today?” Sherlock pointed out.

“Yes, and I am, but not like that, and just what the _hell_ are you doing here?” John whispered.

“Making sure you’re properly taken care of.”

“You’re mad.”

“No I’m not, they released me once before. Remember?” Sherlock smirked.

John sighed.

“You need to actually _talk_ during therapy, or it won’t work,” Sherlock scolded, “No one is going to ridicule you or…”

“They want to hypnotize me!

“Trust issues?”

“Dammit, _yes_. How the hell am I supposed to stretch out on a couch and let someone _rape my mind_?”

“Well when you put it that way, it does sound less than pleasant.”

John sighed and rubbed his forehead.

“Love me, do you?”

“Yes.”

“What the hell am I supposed to do with that? You said it yourself, heterosexual.”

“And attracted to me.”

“Still heterosexual.”

“Limiting yourself is rather…”

“Dull, yes. Thank you. I’m supposed to be here to get _rid_ of problems, not amass more.”

The look on Sherlock’s face told John he hadn’t thought his revelation would add to John’s distress.

“I just… I want you to be _happy_ ,” Sherlock replied, sitting back and rubbing at his face in frustration, “I’ve gone most of my life without intimate relationships, I can continue on that track. I don’t _need_ us to be more complicated than we are.”

The movement was so utterly human, so completely _not Sherlock_ that John instantly labeled it as lying.

“That’s good, that’s… alright. Not that I believe you, but it’s nice of you to have said so.”

“John,” Sherlock stated, his eyes intense, “I mean it. I want you to be well. You’ve no idea what it’s been like for me to see you fall apart like this; to find you were trying to end your own life, even unconsciously.”

“Probably a bit like watching your best mate jump off of a building after telling you everything you held dear was a lie.”

Sherlock winced.

They opted for silence, sitting in the hard, red plastic chairs and washing the machine vibrate until it buzzed. Sherlock didn’t budge. John stood up and transferred their clothes over, and just like that it hit him. It was so _normal_. John taking care of Sherlock, and Sherlock waiting for him to do it; it was comfortable and John heaved a sigh of relief as tension simply fell off his shoulders.

“Something on your mind?” Sherlock asked.

“I want to go home,” John replied, not looking up.

John heard the chair scrape behind him and felt Sherlock’s hands wrap around his waist from behind.

“Hey!” The guard barked, but they both ignored him.

“Say the word and we’ll leave, but you’ll _have_ to be hypnotized then. I can’t have you killing yourself or getting yourself locked up permanently because you killed someone else.”

John closed his eyes, tears threatening.

“Separate!” The guard snapped. He’d removed his headphones and was headed over to them with an irritated look on his face.

“Bugger off,” Sherlock snapped, “Or I’ll inform the staff that you’re slipping small doses of narcotics in to the patients.”

The guard paled and then bolted for the door, shutting it behind him so they had privacy. John chuckled despite himself and turned in Sherlock’s arms, pressing his forehead to the man’s chest.

“What do I do, Sherlock? I’m afraid of myself, my doctors think I’m hallucinating you being here, and the one place I want to be I’m not fit to be near.”

“You’re always welcome home, John. It’s for you I’m afraid, not me.”

“That doesn’t make me feel better. I just… I want it all to _go away_. I don’t want to remember killing a child. I don’t want to have harmed myself. I don’t want to have threatened _you._ ”

John lifted his head and they stared into each other’s eyes quietly for a moment. It was by far the most intimate they had ever been; more intimate than sleeping wrapped in each other’s arms. Sherlock pressed their foreheads together and John could see the longing in his eyes, something he’d never thought Sherlock capable of feeling.

“Sometimes I think you’re the only option I have, Sherlock.”

“You _are_ the only option I have, John,” Sherlock stated firmly.

John kissed him, pushed up on his toes and pressed their lips together. It wasn’t passionate, or hungry, or lustful; it was just a slow press of lips and the acceptance of the person they belonged to.

“Come to my session tomorrow,” John whispered into Sherlock’s shoulder once more.

“Yes.”

“As yourself?”

“Yes.”

[CHAPTER THREE](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/39714.html)


	3. vincentmeoblinn | Not Suicide Ch 3

“Mr. Holmes, it’s an honor,” Dr. Franklin smiled, “I understand you’ll be our emotional support during John’s hypnosis?”

“Quite right, Doctor,” Sherlock replied.

He was back to his old self, his hair a dark brown and his eyes that stunning hazel-green-blue that left men and women breathless. He was comfort to John, a port in the storm, and it was all he could do to restrain himself from pressing in for a hug. It was embarrassing.

They settled down, John lying back on a settee while Sherlock perched in a chair above his head. John was able to reach up and clasp Sherlock’s hand. John was walked through a series of breathing and relaxing techniques and then the doctor began to ease him into a hypnotic state. John felt a bit disconnected from his body, but was otherwise aware of his surroundings. Sherlock’s hand was warm in his own.

“We’re going to go to the roof of St. Bartholomew’s hospital, a year after Sherlock faked his death. Where are you?”

“The roof of St. Bart’s, looking down at the pavement. There’s no stain. I’m thinking about adding my own to it.”

Sherlock’s hand clenched his painfully and John startled up. The doctor scolded Sherlock and they started over again. It was a few minutes before John was back to that same state as before.

“What happens now? Tell me what is around you.”

“No one. I’m alone. So completely alone. No one is left. Not even Mary.”

“What do you do?”

“I pull out the blocks I made. They’re the exact height difference between Sherlock and I with shoes on. I put them on the ledge and I pull out my cell phone to toss it aside. There are footsteps behind me. I turn and see Molly Hooper.”

“What does she say or do?”

“She wants me to come down. She’s crying. She tells me Sherlock asked her to look after me and she hasn’t because she was jealous, but she wants to make it up to me. She begs me to come down and I do.”

“How do you feel?”

“Guilty. I realize Sherlock didn’t want me to do kill myself and I feel like a fool.”

“What next?”

“She takes me down to the lab and gets me a cup of coffee. She’s texting someone and I figure she’s ratting me out to Mycroft. We talk for a bit and then Anthea shows up for me.”

“Who is Anthea?”

“Mycroft’s assistant.”

“Ah. Her. Go on. What happens next?”

“We get in one of Mycroft’s town cars and drive to the Diogenes Club. He’s angry. He tells me he expected better from me and that Sherlock would be disappointed.”

Sherlock’s fingers tightened again, but not enough to pull John out of his trance.

“He told me that if I wanted to do right by Sherlock I’d help him take down Moriarty’s network and avenge him. I was so relieved to have a purpose again I didn’t even question it, not even when he handed me several weapons, a plain black shirt, pants, and mask, a contract, and a folder full of names, addresses, and faces. He told me I’d be given hit dates; days when I should go and take them out, and not to move before then. I went home and used a secure connection he set up for me to research them all. I focused on it to the point of obsession. He had to start paying my bills and having Anthea drop off food. At one point he had to stop in and make sure I was eating and bathing.”

“How long did this go on for?”

“A month. Then the first hit call came in. I drove to the location specified, an auto repair shop, and I shot the man from the picture. I did it point blank, from a few feet away. He turned around and I shot him between the eyes.”

“How did you feel?”

“Excited. Relieved. Vindicated. I went home and cried and laughed and wanked.”

“You were aroused by killing him?”

“No. By having done right by Sherlock. I imagined him there with me.”

“Had you done that before? Masturbated while thinking of him? Either before or after his apparent death?”

“No. I’d never let myself do that. I didn’t want to be attracted to someone who could never return the feelings.”

Sherlock had been cautioned not to speak during this process, but he once again squeezed John’s hand gently. John felt himself smiling, but was still a bit removed from the sensations around him.

“I think that’s enough for today. John, you’re going to take several deep, slow breaths, and then you’re going to wake up. Three… two… one…”

John sighed and sat up, feeling tense but also a bit relieved.

“You recall what we spoke of?” Dr. Franklin asked.

Sherlock was still holding his hand and John wasn’t inclined to take it back.

“Yes, but… as if it were a dream.”

“Do you recall the actions you took as well as our discussion?”

“Yes, but again, like it was a dream.”

“You’ve done very well for a first session, most fight a bit at first. We’ll resume this again the day after tomorrow, if that’s alright with Mr. Holmes?”

“It’s fine, I’ll be here the same time as today.”

“Very well. Good evening, gentlemen.”

XXXXXXXXXX

Session after session the same thing occurred, with the exception of several sessions in which he unconsciously fought the doctor. Overall each story was about the same. John researched, waited for his hit date, went to the location, took out his target, and went home to celebrate. Sherlock never mentioned the times John mentioned masturbating to his memory, despite the fact that it came up more than once. He also didn’t stop showing up for group therapy and occasionally berating him or other patients who were slow on the road to recovery.

A month in and John was having more nightmares and had woken up restrained several times until the doctors started discussing finding a safe way to restrain him while he slept at night. Apparently padded rooms were a thing of the past, but if John kept having ‘fits’ then Mycroft was going to make them popular again. The final straw was when John had a one of his ‘fits’ in the middle of group therapy. He was sitting there, listening to an alcoholic mom describe how she had been so desperate for booze one day that she had tried to sell her daughter’s pram… with the daughter still in it. Suddenly he felt a creeping sensation up his spine, as though someone were about to grab him from behind. The next moment he was on the floor with two guards sitting on him and a needle jabbing into his arm. Before the world turned hazy John heard a woman sobbing and someone calling for an ambulance.

[CHAPTER FOUR](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/39936.html)


	4. vincentmeoblinn | Not Suicide Ch 4

POSSIBLE TRIGGER WARNING: I took a LOT of poetic license with this chapter, mostly because my research turned up so little. Please take my fic with a grain of salt and don’t let it stop you from seeking help if you need it. My sole experience, which I’m going off of for this fic, was as a minor in a facility named Kids Peace in the US. I was there for Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (due to years of abuse) and depression- not detox- though I did spend some time in a detox facility when no other rooms were available after I threatened suicide (again). Overall, my experiences helped me a great deal and I’m able to lead a relatively normal life now.

 

John had been strapped down to a bed for several hours, but it wasn’t hospital procedure. The police had been called in. John accepted his situation with a bowed head. They refused to tell him what he’d done, only that a woman received stitches but she wasn’t pressing charges. Sherlock stood up for John left and right, but in the end Mycroft had put him in his place by pointing out that even John wasn’t trying to make excuses.

A lawyer, Mycroft, Sherlock, and his therapist all argued for hours. The staff at Lethoa wanted John sent to a high-risk hospital for people with long term mental illnesses while attempting to medicate him, an option John had refused up until now but he was no longer able to make that decision. If the medicine worked well then he’d be transferred back to Lethoa. Sherlock and Mycroft wanted him to stay at Lethoa, but the closest they had to a high-risk ward was the A level detox ward for the heavier users who opted out of medical detox; John would be surrounded by people coming down from meth, acid, and other intense drugs _au naturale_. Finally they left the decision to John, who silently reasoned that Sherlock shouldn’t have to break into _another_ facility and decided to stay in Lethoa.

John was in solitary for the first three days while they filled him with anti-anxiety medication and a mood stabilizer. He was warned over a dozen times- by over a dozen different doctors- that one of the medications had suicide as a side effect.

“Why are you giving it to me, then? I’m here because I tried to kill myself several times!”

“A side effect isn’t necessarily something that _will_ happen, just something that statistically can.”

“Again. Why? This is supposed to _treat_ me, not make me worse.”

“All treatments come with risks, Mr. Watson. If this medication doesn’t work for you we’ll try something else. That’s why you’re _here._ ”

“Doctor Watson,” John corrected automatically. The woman looked at him as if he should know better if he were a doctor and excused herself.

John couldn’t sleep. At night people shouted and banged against walls and doors, sobbing or just shrieking incoherently. The third night was the worst. They put a new fellow in the cell next to him who was coming down from what was apparently an entire pharmaceutical company. If he wasn’t moaning in agony he was screaming and cursing at the top of his lungs. John finally lost his cool and added to the screaming, demanding the entire ward shut up. To his surprise, one of the night doctors showed up to make sure he wasn’t having another fit.

“I’m already crazy enough, how do you expect me to get better in a place like this? I haven’t slept since I arrived!”

“I’m sorry, but we can’t allow sedatives on this ward.”

“I don’t want sedatives, I want _quiet_! I’m not even a drug addict!”

“No exceptions, honey,” he chirped.

John screamed as loud as he could as he left, and then curled up in the corner of his padded cell (see they _were_ still around, though only the walls were padded) with his fingers in his ears. Luckily the fellow was gone the next day. Either he’d finally opted for medical detox or the natural route had proved too dangerous for him. John, however, was far from comforted. He was frantic to get moved to a different hospital, anywhere that didn’t contain people freaking out all day and night.

To John’s relief it was Sherlock in scrubs, brown contacts, and a fake, shiny, baldhead, who walked through the door with a small paper cup full of heaven. John dry swallowed the pain pills and gave Sherlock a look of absolute misery.

“Get me out of here. Please. You’re easier to live with than these…” John swallowed his comments when he recalled that Sherlock had at one point been locked up in this same wing, “Did you do medical or…”

“Are you mad? Medical & rapid. I slept it all off after a mere two hours and focused on my therapy, which is what you should be doing.”

“I’d love to, if you could just calm down the neighbors.”

A man was retching somewhere, a doctor in with him monitoring him to make sure he wasn’t choking on his vomit or becoming dehydrated. They were all quite caring, really, but John had no idea why they were taking the _long_ road when there were so many drugs available to them!

“Why are they doing this to themselves?” John asked, “I mean, there are _options_ and money is no object for these people!”

“Some prefer to do this the natural way,” Sherlock ignored John’s scoff, “Some of the medications can cause addiction themselves, and sometimes people’s bodies can’t handle them.”

“Me? Out? Now?”

“Not so easy. Mycroft thinks this is best for you. I can sneak you out, but I can’t get you better treatment than here. I did find you…”

Sherlock rooted around in a bag that was apparently concealed in his scrubs.

“Ear plugs!”

“You might not need them for long.”

“I’m being moved?”

“They’re waiting to see if you have another fit, but Mycroft did go off on them for keeping you in this state. They can’t move you, not enough padded cells, but they’re going to move everyone else. Not far, just down a few rooms so you’ll have this nice bachelor pad all to yourself with a _bit_ more quiet. Thankfully they haven’t had any more people arrive.”

“Thank gods.”

Sherlock looked proud of himself, as he usually did, and John was too relieved not to grin from ear to ear despite his throbbing headache and drooping eyes. Sherlock sat himself down beside John on his mattress on the floor with a carefree flop and smiled at him cheerily.

“Have I earned myself a kiss?”

“I haven’t shaven in days and I’m sorely in need of a toothbrush.”

“Thought of that, too,” Sherlock grinned, pulling out a travel size mouthwash from his scrubs.

“No straight razor, shaving cream, cup, whisk?” John teased.

“You use electric, and you look good with stubble.”

“Stubble? This is bordering on beard.”

John scrubbed down, spitting into the water-less latrine in the corner of his room. Once he was presentable he dropped back down beside Sherlock and tugged him close to kiss him firmly. Sherlock moaned into the kiss, but John drew back with a whimper at the deep sound.

“My head feels like a drum at a heavy metal concert,” John whispered.

“I know a cure for headaches,” Sherlock whispered back.

“That’s a myth,” John snickered.

“Fine then, I know a cure for insomnia in males.”

“That sounds medically relevant,” John replied with a weak grin, “But I’m exhausted, Sherlock.”

“I’m offering to suck your cock, John,” Sherlock whispered, gently stroking the man’s lips with his own, “Don’t be a fool. You’ve no idea what kind of _skill_ I have.”

John shivered; want arching through him as he recalled every fantasy he’d ever indulged in about Sherlock… well, the ones that he’d recently recovered and a few new ones, at least. He had showered just last night, but he still wasn’t sure he wanted to pursue a relationship with this man.

“I’m…” John started, but Sherlock was pressing closer to him, his hands exploring John’s body.

Sherlock straddled John’s hips rubbing his own against him, and John felt a surge of something similar to fear as he felt Sherlock’s erection touch his own. He was clearly as aroused as Sherlock was, but he was also still very uncomfortable, and as the detective began to _really_ snog him John began to push him away.

“What’s wrong?” Sherlock panted, confusion painting his face.

“I’m… not ready,” John replied lamely, and blushed at the sheer stupidity of his own reply. _I sound like a teenage girl!_

Sherlock eased off of him with a worried look on his face.

“I… apologize,” Sherlock replied, though he looked more frustrated than sorry.

“No, it’s… it would help if you looked like you, you know? Not Mr. Clean.”

Sherlock touched his bald pate and nodded understanding: “Mr. Clean? Who…? Never mind. I suppose you looking like someone else would put a damper on my libido as well.”

“Oh, it’s not the least bit dampened just… staved off.”

“Well then, what about something less intimate?”

“Like?”

“What’s a handjob between friends, eh?” Sherlock grinned when John laughed lightly, “We’ve both been to Uni, don’t tell me my experience was more _exciting_ than yours.”

“Quite a bit, apparently,” John whispered back, his head still throbbing; his aching cock won out against his throbbing skull, “Yeah. Yeah, okay.”

Sherlock grinned and palmed John through his scrubs, making him arch and pant a bit. He let his head fall back and his eyes closed and imagined he was back in 221B and Sherlock was groping him on their couch. The thought was so vividly erotic that he found himself on the edge in record time. Sherlock’s hand slipped into the waistband and stroked his bare cock, leaving John whimpering with need while he tried to stay quiet enough not to aggravate his pounding migraine. Sherlock’s hands were calloused and warm, firm and strong; he gripped John’s cock the way he would his own but the rhythm was all Sherlock. No woman would touch him like this, but that thought had John pulling back from the edge with that curl of fear again.

“Let yourself go, John,” Sherlock whispered, “Be greedy for a change.”

Then he leaned forward and ran his tongue around John’s cockhead, sliding it beneath the foreskin and flicking the frenulum. John exploded, his hand coming up to grip the back of Sherlock’s top as his hips jerked helplessly. Sherlock had clamped his lips onto the tip of John’s member and the man felt as though Sherlock were sucking the energy from him as well as his seed. John was asleep almost instantly, his last recollection the feel of Sherlock gently kissing his temple.

XXXXXXXXXXX

When John awoke he had earplugs in and he lay there a moment enjoying the blissful silence. When the door to his room opened he forced himself upright, popped them out, and smiled at the doctor who stood before him.

“Feeling well today, Dr. Watson?”

“Better than I did, yeah,” John replied, glancing down and relieved to find himself covered.

“We need a word,” Dr. Franklin sighed, shutting the door behind himself and lowering himself onto the soft pouf that served as the only chair in the room.

“About what?”

“Sherlock.”

“Ah.”

“We’re aware he visited you last night. In fact, ‘Sigerson’ has been removed from the facility completely. I’d scold you for not telling us, but you basically did and frankly… I don’t think you _could_ completely out him.”

“Damn,” John sighed, wishing now he _had_ chosen another facility, but he had no way of knowing Sherlock would be discovered.

“Dr. Watson… you described your relationship with Sherlock as an addiction during therapy.”

“Y-yes?”

“Is it? Do you think your relationship with your flatmate is unhealthy?”

John thought about last night, about how he’d asked for more space and Sherlock had pushed the boundary even then.

“Yes.”

“I’d like to advise you to eliminate him from your life. I’d _like_ to tell you that he’s not good for you and that you’re better off finding new friends who don’t demand your every waking moment from you. However…”

“Mycroft,” John deduced all on his own.

“Indeed. This conversation,” Dr. Franklin stood, “Never happened.”

[CHAPTER FIVE](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/40430.html)


	5. vincentmeoblinn | Not Suicide Ch 5

The first thing John noticed upon waking up was Sherlock’s scent. He sighed happily and nuzzled into his flatmates body, enjoying the warmth, presence, and overall attention of the normally active man. Sherlock sighed and it stirred John’s hair, making him chuckle a bit. He lifted his head and smiled up at Sherlock’s sleeping face, enjoying his comforting embrace on a whole new level after what they’d done…

Reality hit. John was _hospitalized_. Sherlock wasn’t supposed to be here, certainly not while he wasn’t in disguise. John sat up and looked around himself. Yep. Still in his little padded room of hell. On his little rubber, thin sheeted, mattress with no blanket. No wonder Sherlock’s warmth had seemed so intense!

To top it off Mycroft and a doctor were sitting on little rollaway stools in the corner. John groaned and rubbed his hands over his face before giving Sherlock a shake to wake him up.

“We have visitors.”

“Mmm, I know. Go back to sleep. They can wait.”

“They really can’t,” John sighed.

Sherlock huffed and sat up, glaring at them all. John noted he was in hospital garb as well.

“Have you been commited?” John asked in alarm.

“No, but that is an excellent suggestion,” Mycroft answered for Sherlock, “Sherlock has refused to leave your side and I’ve had to make… accommodations for him. John, meet your new doctor.”

“What happened to Dr. Franklin?” John asked, somewhat hostile as he had a rather good idea what had happened.

“You just focus on getting better so I can have you both home,” Mycroft cooed in a false tone of affection.

XXXXXXXXXXX

Things weren’t going well. John didn’t connect with the new doctor and unconsciously fought every hypnosis session despite Sherlock’s comforting presence. He was allowed to call Mycroft whenever he wanted now that he was off the detox ward, but no matter how he insisted he needed Dr. Franklin back the man stubbornly refused. Finally John simply refused to go to another session and sat quietly through group again. Sherlock was furious and made the call to Mycroft demanding Dr. Franklin back once more.

“He won’t come,” Sherlock sighed, “Apparently he doesn’t like his life being dictated by Mycroft any more than we do. He’s said he’ll see you outside of the hospital in his private offices, but not here. Of course Mycroft will have them bugged…”

“So we’re leaving?”

“So it would seem. You’re having fewer nightmares and have had no fits these last six days. The doctors are willing to discharge you so long as you’ll be continuing therapy outside of here.”

John found himself packed and out the door in quick order. He kept hold of Sherlock’s arm, still nervous about being amongst the general populace when he’d caused so many problems. He was medicated, true, and had only a few unpleasant side effects, but for the most part the medicine made him feel groggy. Since several of the ‘incidents’ had happened while he’d been asleep, that made him more nervous than relieved.

“You should trust it,” Sherlock had soothed when he’d expressed this to him, “It is meant to control your anxiety, which is where your violence stems from.”

John wasn’t sure about the medicine, but he _was_ certain of the growing closeness between himself and Sherlock. Unhealthy it might be, but the man’s warmth and affection was genuine and John was lapping it up. Sherlock had thrown himself into a relationship with John with the same intense fullness of attention that he did his cases, music, or experiments. John was his focus for now, though he had no delusions that it would stay that way.

John and Sherlock hadn’t been intimate since that first time in the hospital, mostly because John was disgusted by the idea that Mycroft had seen the first time. Now that they had reached 221B Sherlock did a quick sweep for bugs while John tossed his bag into Sherlock’s room. He hadn’t slept in his own in ages and was wondering how to broach the idea of him moving his things down here.

_One step at a time, John_ , John scolded himself. First to see if this was possible: if he was too ill to be in a relationship than Sherlock shouldn’t have to deal with his things after... _After you off yourself? Better than ending up on a permanent ward._

Sherlock’s arms slipped around John’s hips.

“We’re completely alone, and no spying Mycroft to worry about,” Sherlock purred, making John shiver in anticipation.

“Slowly, Sherlock,” John coaxed, “I’m having a sexual identity crisis here, you can’t push me too fast.”

“You’re already hard,” Sherlock whispered in his ear, “I have no need to _push you_.”

“You know what I mean, Sherlock,” John chuckled, but had absolutely no complaint when they began tugging each other’s clothes off.

Sherlock, for his part, seemed perfectly willing to let John press _him_ into the mattress, sighing happily as John’s weight settled on him. That scenario didn’t last for long, however, as John tried to drag out the foreplay as he would with a woman. Sherlock soon growled his annoyance and rolled them over. He then snatched some lube from the bedside table and pressed a knee between John’s clenched thighs.

“Ah, Sherlock…” John stammered, panicking a moment, “Bit fast.”

“We’ve been sharing a bed for _months_ , John. Just what precisely is your definition of ‘slow’?”

“You know it’s not very polite to pressure your date… which we haven’t done by the way.”

“Date?”

“Precisely.”

“I haven’t taken you out to dinner and paid for it?”

“Well…”

“Any other protests?”

“Be gentle?” John replied, proud his voice hadn’t cracked.

“Obviously,” Sherlock snorted.

John lay stiff and uncomfortable as Sherlock pressed his legs apart and up, directing him to hold them. He then lubricated a finger and began to stroke his entrance. John kept his eyes focused on Sherlock’s face, determined to keep in mind that he was with his best friend and flatmate, not just some random bloke or a quick thrill from a bar.

“You aren’t relaxing,” Sherlock scolded, glancing at him with a raised eyebrow, “You have to relax.”

“I’m… trying. This is a bit nerve wracking for me.”

“I don’t see why. You are attracted to me and I’m going to give you pleasure. You should be eager and responsive, not stiff and uninterested,” Sherlock replied, glancing down at John’s flagging erection.

“Sherlock, have you done this often?”

“A fair few times, why?”

“What about with men who were… I guess virginal is the best word all things considered.”

“I never thought to ask. Why?”

“Because you’re about as warm and comforting as ice,” John replied, pushing Sherlock’s hands away and scooting backwards.

Once John was sitting up, he squirmed a bit at the odd sensation of having his hole wet, but there was nothing to do about it at the moment.

“How should I be?” Sherlock scowled.

“How about gentle and considerate?” John sighed.

Sherlock scowled and thought about that a moment, “I’m not sure I’m capable of that, John.”

“I’m not sure you are either,” John replied sadly.

“What do you propose we do instead?”

John leaned forward and gave Sherlock a gentle peck on the kiss, stood, and left the room to take a shower. Sherlock tried the knob a moment or two after he had shut the door, but John had made sure to lock both doors and the detective was evidently much better at taking a hint than he’d otherwise indicated.

[CHAPTER SIX](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/40631.html)


	6. vincentmeoblinn | Not Suicide Ch 6

“John, I’d like to join you for therapy today,” Sherlock stated.

John looked up from his newspaper in surprise. They’d both taken a big step back once John had, essentially, rejected Sherlock. John had started sleeping in his own room again – solo – and they had both avoided physical contact. John had also gone to his first session back with Dr. Franklin without telling Sherlock the date or time. He’d known, of course, because he was Sherlock, but he hadn’t interfered and John had finally had a successful hypnosis session. He’d also shared his concerns about Sherlock with Dr. Franklin, namely that the man wasn’t 100% capable of connecting with John emotionally.

_“I love him. I know I do, and I know on some level he loves me, too.”_

_“But?” Dr. Franklin prodded gently._

_“But he’s just not capable of being what I need. I’m not opposed to being with a man, physically that is, but I’m also completely inexperienced. It scares me a bit. I feel like I need to find someone else to be with as practice, but that’s just cruel. I can’t go off and date a man just to get laid by him and have some sort of romanticized first time. A one off wouldn’t be any better than the way Sherlock was treating me. I certainly don’t want anyone else, anyway, and I’m not about to hire a rentboy.”_

_“Well, at least you’ve come to several logical conclusions,” Dr. Franklin smiled, “What are you going to do about it?”_

_“Not much, I suppose, we’ve both backed off. I guess that’s that. We’re better off as just friends. I suppose a lifelong platonic relationship isn’t a disaster. I do miss sleeping beside him, but I’m not sure if we can go back to… well, you know.”_

_“Platonic.”_

_“Yeah.”_

“Why?” John asked automatically, and then winced.

“Because I want you to get better. I may not be capable of the tenderness you desire, but that doesn’t change the fact that I care about you, John.”

“I had a very successful session with Dr. Franklin. You don’t need to hold my hand anymore. I’m getting better, or at least I’d like to think I am.”

Sherlock sighed, “You had a nightmare last night.”

John nodded. He’d woken up screaming, but when Sherlock had tried to come in he’d found John’s door locked. He had waited outside it for some time- possibly the rest of the night- John wasn’t sure as he’d fallen back to sleep after an hour or so.

“I’ll have nightmares, Sherlock. Everyone does.”

“I don’t.”

“You’re… unique,” John grinned. Sherlock returned the smile, but there was worry in his eyes, “I’m sorry, Sherlock, I just don’t think it’s a good idea. We need a bit of space from each other.”

“Why?” Sherlock asked in a strop, tossing himself down in the chair opposite John, “I can do better if you’ll just _instruct_ me. If I can convince people I’m crying at a crimescene than I can pull this off as well. I’ve just never had the opportunity to observe how people behave with their lovers. This ‘pillow talk’ and tenderness that you want can all be learned if you’ll just…”

“Learned, Sherlock? You honestly believe I’ll be happy with you playacting that you care about me enough to be gentle?”

Sherlock blinked, “It hasn’t bothered you before.”

John stared a moment, a growing sense of horror, “When have you been acting before?”

“When we’re in bed together, of course. You don’t honestly think I like to _cuddle_ do you?”

John felt ill. He stood up, grabbed his jacket, and left without a word. He walked blindly for a while, fully aware that Sherlock was following him but content to ignore that fact so long as he stayed a good distance away. He walked until his legs ached and then sat on a bench, watching people get on and off of the bus for a few hours. Finally Sherlock had enough of standing about watching him and sat down beside him.

“Does it bother you so much? You know I’m a sociopath, John, the ‘high functioning’ part just means I can fit in reasonably well. It’s all an act.”

“No, the sociopath part is an act, Sherlock. You forget I’m a doctor. You wouldn’t be capable of half the things you’ve done if you were a sociopath. You wouldn’t have even thought to do them.”

“I suppose you have a better diagnosis?” Sherlock asked, his tone bitter.

“Narcissistic Personality Disorder.”

“It isn’t an ‘exxagerated sense of self-worth’ if it’s accurate,” Sherlock snorted.

“True, I suppose. You’re brilliant, no doubt about that,” John replied.

“Exactly.”

“You’re also disdainful, unable to understand others feelings, manipulative, jealous of your peers success despite glorifying your own, you have trouble with healthy relationships, you set unrealistic goals and refuse to sleep in order to achieve them…”

“Am easily hurt or rejected?” Sherlock countered, “Have fragile self-esteem? Come on, John.”

“You are and you do.”

“Please.”

“Why are you here, Sherlock? If you’re so utterly emotionless, why are you here? Why do you want me to be with you? You said you love me, do you?”

“Insomuch as I am capable of, yes.”

“And what are you capable of, Sherlock? What can you give me that my left hand can’t? Hm?”

A woman nearby gave them a disgusted look and moved a bit away. John ignored her.

“Companionship. A warm body. Friendship. Sexual fulfillment not performed by yourself.”

“A whore can give me that, Sherlock,” John snapped harshly, “And we’re back to why you _want_ to. Why? Answer me that. Why me? Why not any cheep trick on the corner if you’re looking for someone to warm your bed.”

Sherlock was silent, his face confused for several minutes, “I don’t know.”

John sighed and stood up, “Come on. My appointment is in an hour.”

[CHAPTER SEVEN](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/40808.html)


	7. vincentmeoblinn | Not Suicide Ch 7

“Today,” Dr. Franklin stated, “I’d like to discuss your feelings about your resurfaced memories. What sort of emotions do you feel when you think about them.”

“Well I… I don’t,” John replied in surprise, “I mean they’re all very dream-like. Sometimes I don’t even think they’re real.”

“That’s understandable,” Dr. Franklin nodded, “Would it help to visit their graves? Perhaps if you mourn them you’ll be able to move past them.”

John frowned, “I don’t feel guilty about their deaths. Not in the slightest. They were part of an organization that tried to _kill_ Sherlock simply because he was smarter than Moriarty. They can rot in hell for all I care.”

“Well, that was certainly a feeling,” Dr. Franklin replied with a smile, “I’m glad we won’t have to do any sort of intervention based on guilt. However, you should be aware that you _might_ be going through the stages of acceptance. You may end up questioning yourself at a later date, perhaps even feeling remorseful. If that does happen I need you to contact me so we can work through it.”

“Not gonna happen,” John replied with a tight-lipped smile.

Sherlock smirked beside him, “He’s not exactly new to killing, Doctor.”

“Or to being fine with it,” John added, “Don’t get me wrong, I’m not alright with killing in general, but if it serves a _purpose_ well…”

“One less criminal off the streets,” Sherlock nodded, “Of course that makes less for _me_ to chase.”

John laughed, “I assume Mycroft only sent me after the boring ones, anyway.”

“Oh, yes, I’m sure. He’d never do me like that,” Sherlock laughed.

Dr. Franklin grinned at their playful banter, and motioned to them both, “Are things worked out between you two?”

“Ah, hardly,” John replied, licking his lips nervously, “We’re in a bit of limbo.”

“John wants me to be more emotionally invested and tender,” Sherlock stated in a neutral voice.

“What do you want, Sherlock?” Dr. Franklin asked.

“I want John to be happy.”

“What about for yourself?”

“I don’t follow.”

“Everyone has wants and needs, what do you want and need from John?”

Sherlock thought a moment, “He’s already giving me what I want and need.”

“Which is?” John asked.

Sherlock gave John a startled look, “Your attention. Your praises. Your… devotion, such as it is.”

“That’s it? That’s all you want or need from me?”

“I told you before. This is just transport. Having sex with you would be no hardship.”

“But you don’t want or need it?”

“I don’t want or need sex in general, John. You needn’t take it as an offense. My body takes care of its needs in my sleep, same as yours does. That you choose to indulge…”

“Indulge!” John laughed.

“It’s no different than cocaine or morphine.”

“Yet you’ve had sex before.”

“I had to be aware of what it felt like for knowledge purposes,” Sherlock shrugged indifferently, “I took Viagra when I felt no arousal for the female. The male was attractive enough to me that the drug wasn’t necessary.”

“That’s it? Nothing exciting? You didn’t care for either of them?”

“I care for you,” Sherlock stated firmly, “Isn’t that enough?”

“I don’t know,” John replied, “It should be.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and waited, but John just licked his lips, sighed, and turned away.

“Sherlock,” Dr. Franklin asked, “What do you want from John emotionally? A relationship? A friendship? A disciple?”

“Disciple,” John laughed, but it was bitter.

“A relationship,” Sherlock replied, surprising John and Dr. Franklin.

“Why?” John stammered, “If you don’t want a sexual relationship…”

“Is that the _only_ relationship you can think of, John?” Sherlock replied scathingly, “I _love_ you, probably the strongest emotion I’ve ever felt. No, I don’t know how to express it. No, sex isn’t the only thing on my mind. Have I denied you anything? Ever? I’ve considered us ‘together’ for a good deal longer than you have, and I’ve never asked you for more. At least I’ve been faithful to you, John.”

“Faithful! Bloody hell, Sherlock, you can’t expect me to be faithful when I don’t know that you’re my bloody boyfriend!”

“Nor have I, but that didn’t stop it from hurting whenever you waltzed out the door for a date with some _woman_.”

“Clearly it has!” John snapped back.

“Gentlemen!” Dr. Franklin called above them, “John, this is _exactly_ what you wanted.”

“Sorry?” John asked, giving him a frustrated look.

“Sherlock is _jealous_. That’s as much an emotion as your anger over his fake death. Now, as to the sexual aspects of your relationship, how important is that to you, John? Can you be happy with an asexual relationship?”

“No,” Sherlock answered.

John chuckled, “What he said. I’m a simple man with simple urges. Danger, food, drink, and sex.”

“And I provide only three out of four,” Sherlock laughed, “Money for your food and drink, danger for your adrenaline cravings.”

“Not the fourth,” John sighed, “So where do we go from here? I don’t want an unwilling lover.”

“I’m not _unwilling_ …”

“You’re just uninterested. Bit of a blow to my ego, Sherlock.”

“Not _uninterested_. I was erect earlier, if you do recall.”

“I didn’t notice,” John laughed, “I was too busy trying to get away from your fingers.”

“You two have already attempted sex?” Dr. Franklin asked.

“Poorly, yes,” Sherlock sighed, “Apparently I’m not _gentle_ enough.”

“I was too nervous,” John admitted.

“Tell me, Sherlock, would you be comfortable being on the bottom?”

“Were John experienced, yes,” Sherlock admitted, “I’ve enjoyed being penetrated before, but I’d prefer to top until John is aware of the expectations of anal sex.”

“You might have to step outside of you comfort zone,” Dr. Franklin stated, “When dealing with a man who has only ever been with women before.”

“I know how to be gentle, Sherlock,” John chastised, “I’m also not _really_ a virgin. I know not to jackhammer you.”

Sherlock smirked, “Jackhammer?”

John rolled his eyes and chuckled a bit.

“Then you think you two can work this out?” Dr. Franklin asked.

“We can try,” Sherlock replied, “I can certainly try to be more enthusiastic.”

“Just… don’t _act,_ ” John insisted.

Sherlock nodded.

[CHAPTER EIGHT](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/41126.html)


	8. vincentmeoblinn | Not Suicide Ch 8

John’s mind ran over their conversation several times as they headed home in the cab. It was quite a drive to Dr. Franklin’s office, and John was grateful for the current long drive back. Because every way he turned it around in his head Sherlock was simply not as experienced as he let on. Oh, he probably had sex more than those two times he’d mentioned, it was like him to leave out details, but John now found him _wanting_ those details.

“You have questions,” Sherlock stated.

“How many times total have you had sex?”

“Mmmm, five.”

“Five?”

“If you count oral sex, yes.”

“Hm.”

“Why?”

“Just… wondered. So it was once oral and vaginal with the woman, then oral and anal with the man, and then?”

“The man and I switched positions,” Sherlock supplied.

“Ah.”

“You sound awfully smug, John.”

“Which did you prefer, top or bottom?”

“With the man you mean. Neither. They were both equally satisfying.”

“Then you did find them satisfying?”

“Of course. I don’t _dislike_ sex, John, I just don’t have time to seek it out.”

“And if it’s readily available?”

“I’ve already told you I’ll engage in intercourse with you, John,” Sherlock replied with a tired sigh, “I don’t know what your point in this is, except to give you some bloated sense of superiority by weighing your experience against mine.”

“I’m just wondering about foreplay, actually.”

“What about it?”

“Did you ‘engage’ in it?”

“I did mention oral, didn’t I?”

“For long?”

“Define long?”

“More than a minute.”

“For the woman, yes, for the man, no.”

John spent a few minutes pondering what to do and then grinned from ear to ear.

“What?” Sherlock asked.

“Nothing.”

“Oh, I think it’s something,” Sherlock grinned.

In response John reached out and stroked his hand along the inside of Sherlock’s thigh. The detective raised an eyebrow but didn’t otherwise respond. John wasn’t done. He stroked a bit higher, then back down, then ran his nails up the inseam of his trouser leg. Sherlock sucked in his breath through his teeth and pushed up on his legs against the cab floor. John grinned out the window and slipped his hand away.

“What…?” Sherlock started, then cut himself off and cleared his throat awkwardly.

John waited till the count of thirty and then rested his hand on Sherlock’s knee. The man tensed instantly so John removed his hand.

“You’re… you’re _teasing_ me.”

“No, Sherlock, I’m not,” John chuckled.

“Then what do you call this?” Sherlock asked irritably.

John leaned over and breathed onto Sherlock’s neck as he whispered, “Foreplay.”

Sherlock shivered and John leaned back again, noticing the narrowed eyes of the cabbie. He pointedly looked out the window and then ran his hand along the outside of Sherlock’s thigh. Sherlock shifted about, but made no noises.

_Not good enough, then_.

John slid his finger around in a circular pattern on the man’s leg, the circle starting small and tight and then widening until Sherlock’s legs spread of their own accord. John broke his pattern, dipping back down to his knee and Sherlock let out a huff of frustration. John immediately swept straight up his inseam and cupped his groin, palming the growing hardness there. Sherlock gasped and John slid his hand lower to grip beneath his knee and give him a gentle tug, just to excite his imagination. Sherlock’s hand flew down and grasped John’s, but he tugged it free. Sherlock adjusted himself in his pants instead.

John smirked and pulled his phone from his pocket with his free hand as he stroked along Sherlock’s opposite thigh. He calmly texted Sherlock, who jumped at the sound and then answered the text.

**You like this? - JW**

**Of course I like it. Nerve endings being stimulated is always enjoyable. What I don’t understand is the purpose since we can’t possibly fulfill our urges within this cab. – SH**

John waited until Sherlock hit send and then quickly pressed his phone between Sherlock’s thighs, right up against his bollocks. The man jolted when John moved his left hand into his crotch with the phone, clapped his hand over John’s, and then gasped as the phone went off… in vibration mode.

“John!” Sherlock gasped.

“Oi! Nothing odd back there!” The cabbie shouted.

“Just a phone went off, what century are you from?” Sherlock snapped.

Then quickly flicked his fingers across his own keyboard, it took a good deal longer than last time, and John had time to check the first text. When Sherlock finally hit send the phone didn’t just go off once, it _kept_ vibrating. Sherlock bit his index finger and looked out his window while John tried not to laugh. John wasn’t about to let him finish (if that was even possible with a cell phone, which was an interesting premise) so he tugged it away and down Sherlock’s thigh. Sherlock silently wrestled him for it, but John had the stronger hands and won out. Sherlock put his head back as though sleeping, but John could hear his breath rasping as John teased around and around, but never where Sherlock wanted it the most.

“You keep that up and I’ll spit you two out!” The cabbie snapped.

“Not for the ridiculously high fee you’ll get for this trip,” Sherlock replied, his voice ragged.

“Not worth the dry cleaning bill,” The man snapped.

“Oh, he won’t be coming here,” John smirked.

“Bloody hell!” Sherlock gasped, but John wasn’t sure if it was from his words or the fact he’d quickly slid the phone across the tip of Sherlock’s swollen cockhead.

The cabbie surprised John by laughing out loud, then turned on the radio so he didn’t have to hear them. John took the time to urge Sherlock to undo his trousers, which he did with due speed, but he then wrestled the man’s arms above his head. Sherlock’s pupils were dilated, his lips parted, his breath panting, and John took the time to press a slow lingering kiss to his lips, dipping his tongue in and out slowly, before he moved his wrists to pin them under one hand and slipped the other down into Sherlock’s trousers. He palmed the man’s hot, hard, erection a moment before slipping his hand back out again. He could just barely hear the whimper Sherlock let out. Then John collected his still vibrating phone and slipped it down beneath the man’s bollocks. Sherlock’s jaw dropped into a gape and he gasped a few times before John tugged it away, surprised at how sensitive the man was. That much stimulation wouldn’t have had him so close to orgasm, but Sherlock was sweating and shaking, his eyes glazed with lust.

John leaned over and whispered into Sherlock’s ear: “I am going to make you scream for me, Sherlock.”

Then he removed hands and phone and sat back to watch the trees fly by.

Sherlock hesitated a moment, slipping his hand into his trousers, but John’s sharp grasp on his wrist discouraged him. He removed his hand and did up his trousers, leaving the top button undone for room. John held his hand for the rest of the car ride.

[CHAPTER NINE](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/41223.html)


	9. vincentmeoblinn | Not Suicide Ch 9

They practically raced upstairs. Sherlock’s erection had finally flagged in the car, but he was half-hard and stripping by the time he got into the sitting room. When he turned to face John his eyes were wild, aroused, confused, and frightened. He had never looked more gorgeous. John caught him by both sides of his face and kissed him hungrily. Sherlock grasped him around the waist and pressed close, grinding his quickly hardening cock against his stomach. John bit his lip, and he gasped and jumped back in surprise.

“I thought you wanted gentle,” Sherlock panted.

“Gentle doesn’t mean _tame_ ,” John growled, pushing him towards the bedroom with a hand on each bare shoulder.

“You are wearing _far_ too many clothes,” Sherlock snarled, tugging at them as he was backed onto the bed.

“So rip them off me, Sherlock Holmes, or are you too aroused to undo buttons?” John taunted.

Sherlock growled and flipped them over, straddling John’s torso and tearing the buttons off of his shirt. He leaned down, hesitated a moment, and then nipped at John’s pecks with relish. John moaned and arched his back, hissing as Sherlock nipped and licked a trail down his body before he got to his jeans and struggled to undo them with his teeth. John was just about to tell him to give up and use his fingers when he managed it and gave John a sly smile.

“Oh. Gods. Yes,” John panted and Sherlock snatched at the drawer for the lube.

John took the moment to grab his arms and drag him face first onto the bed. He then sat on his hips and leaned over his body.

“Haven’t you learned anything yet?” John whispered into his ear as he tongued around the edge, “Slow and steady wins the race.”

“I can’t! I need to climax!” Sherlock snarled.

“Not yet, you don’t,” John teased.

“Damn it, John! The point of sexual intercourse is to ejaculate!”

“No, Sherlock, the point of sex is to come until you can’t see straight.”

“That’s… that’s not possible. I tried it and it didn’t work. Drugs were better.”

“Drugs won’t hold a candle to what I’m going to do to you tonight,” John snarled, and gave his earlobe a nip before sitting up and digging his hands into the flesh on Sherlock’s shoulders. Sherlock groaned and John squeezed another tense muscle.

“John,” Sherlock groaned, “As pleasant as this is, I am not in need of a massage!”

John slid down and gripped Sherlock’s buttocks; giving it the same firm strokes he’d given the man’s shoulders and back. Sherlock gasped and arched his back and John kneaded him while shyly parting his orbs to glance between his cheeks. Sherlock’s furled hole was clean and clenched, but as John watched it twitched and Sherlock wriggled his hips backwards. A glance up told John that Sherlock had spotted him and the man gave him a cheeky wink over his shoulder. John grinned and gave him a soft slap on his arse before grabbing the abandoned lube.

“You have to prepare me first,” Sherlock instructed, “First use one finger to tease the outside… ohhhhh!”

John smirked as he stroked his finger around the edge of Sherlock’s entrance, teasing and stroking before pulling back and giving him a gentle tap with two fingers. Sherlock gasped and jumped beneath him before wriggling back for more. John watched in amazement as Sherlock’s entrance dilated and he slowly slipped a finger in to the first knuckle before dragging it slowly back out.

“You… can go a bit faster than that,” Sherlock panted.

“No, I really can’t,” John teased, slipping his finger back in a bit further.

“Then. Perhaps. You. Should. _Bottom!!_ ” Sherlock all but roared.

“Oh, no you don’t. I’m going to make you _beg_ for my cock.”

“I thought you didn’t want me to _act_ ,” Sherlock snarled.

John chuckled and then leaned down and licked a stripe from his tailbone to the back of his neck, pinning him so he couldn’t wriggle as much as he wanted. At the same moment he pressed his finger all the way inside and curled it.

“FUCK!” Sherlock shouted.

“Benefits of bedding a doctor,” John purred and began sucking a mark into the detective neck as he finger fucked him.

“Wha-wha-,” Sherlock stammered. John forced down a laugh, gave his shoulder a nip and leaned back to slide in a second finger.

He took it slow, torturing Sherlock by applying just enough pressure to his prostate to keep him writhing but not to bring him over the edge. Sherlock was furious, but still refusing to do more than growl and pant, despite the copious amounts of lube John had used.

“Your hole is soooo red and stretched out. Bet I could slide riiiiight in,” John teased.

“please.”

“Sorry?”

“Please!”

“You tested?”

“John!”

“Sherlock…”

“Yes! Damn it, and so are you! Mycroft had us checked!”

John moved off Sherlock’s hip, “Move up the bed.”

Sherlock scrambled forward and stopped on hands and knees.

“Mm-mm, on your back. I’m making love to you, not fucking you.”

Sherlock rolled over, a confused look on his face. His cock was flushed as it peaked out from his foreskin. John reached out and slid his hand down Sherlock’s shaft for the first time, pulling back up and giving it a little twist. Sherlock’s head fell back in bliss. John stroked him a few more times before leaning back and trying to figure the angle out. Sherlock solved his problem by gripping his thighs and lifting them up. John blushed and stroked his cock. He’d been on and off hard, more focused on arousing Sherlock, but the excitement in the man’s trembling body solved any hesitancy he might have had.

John leaned over Sherlock, gripping his dick in one hand as he pressed himself slowly inside. He gasped as his cockhead popped past the first ring of muscles, his eyes flying to Sherlock’s to make sure he was all right. Sherlock’s eyes were closed, his head thrown back, his breath coming in short pants.

“Look at me,” John breathed, “Sherlock, _look at me_.”

“Wha-What’s the difference?”

“I want you to look at me while I make love to you,” John sighed, pulling back out.

Sherlock gripped his shoulders, his eyes flying open: “What’s the difference between making love and fucking?”

“Looking at me. _Seeing_ me. Being with _me_ , Sherlock.”

Sherlock slid his hands down John’s body, caressing his ribs and dipping his thumb into the grooves of the man’s hips. He slid them back to John’s arse and cupped him gently, never taking his eyes from John’s.

“I’m here. With you. John. My John.”

John leans forward and presses his lips to Sherlock’s before leaning back again and pressing inside once more. He took his time, allowing both of them to adjust to the new feelings: physical and otherwise as Sherlock’s eyes widened in surprise.

“John!” Sherlock gasped, “More! Please!”

John sped up, gripping the bed as he looked down at the broad expanse of Sherlock’s pale white chest. He angled his hips, searching for the spot that would make his eyes roll back in his head again. It was far more difficult to locate it with his cock than his fingers, despite the size difference but soon enough…

“Ohh, yessss!” Sherlock moaned, his eyes falling shut, but they quickly sprang back open.

“That’s it,” John breathed, his motions speeding up as he focused on driving Sherlock insane, “It’s okay. Just feel me, Sherlock. Feel me… inside… you…”

“John!” Sherlock gasped, his head thrown back as he writhed, his legs wrapping around John’s waist. He was gripping John’s shoulders tightly and crying out, his breath coming in gasps.

“Sherlock,” John moaned, not sure how much longer he could hold out with Sherlock’s body grasping and trying to suck him in.

Sherlock chose that moment to all but scream, his body gripping John so hard he could barely move, John gasped and nearly jumped as he felt hot moisture pulse across his chest. For a maddening moment he thought this was all a wet dream and it was his own come on his torso, especially when he looked down at the face slackened in pleasure beneath him. Once Sherlock’s muscles relaxed, John pressed into him faster, chasing his own release. Sherlock had gone boneless beneath him and John had to lie across him and grip the man’s hips. He was so close, hovering on the edge, but some tense coil of fear was stopping him from reaching the summit.

“Sherlock,” John breathed, if only to remind himself that this wasn’t _any_ man, this was his detective.

“John,” Sherlock whispered back, “Lean back. I want to see you.”

John pushed up on his arms again, ignoring the burn of strain, and met Sherlock’s eyes as the man began to writhe his hips to bring John off. As John watched Sherlock cocked his head to the side, his eyes turning analytical as they did at a crime scene. John felt himself being utterly dissected by the brilliant man.

“John,” Sherlock breathed, reaching up to caress his cheek, “You’re _amazing_ like this.”

Those words- that _look_ \- the brilliant detective’s full attention on him at last, all of it threw John plummeting over the edge into oblivion as he gasped out his pleasure.

They lay still a moment, panting and holding each other, and simply marveling at the slow throb of their bodies. Sherlock pressed a kiss to John’s temple. John kissed Sherlock’s shoulder.

“Good?” John panted.

“Outstanding,” Sherlock sighed.

“Acting?”

“I think I’ve forgotten how.”

John paused a moment, then started snickering. Sherlock joined him and they were soon laughing in each other’s arms. It felt like coming home again. It felt like Sherlock had never left, never jumped, never bled on the sidewalk, never made him want to die with him. They cleaned up slowly, using washing as an excuse to explore each other’s bodies, before stumbling into bed. They kissed, and joked, and laughed, and– finally- slept.

When John woke up he was alone in a cold, empty, metal room wrapped in nothing but a blood soaked sheet. The blood was not his own.

[CHAPTER TEN](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/41711.html)


	10. vincentmeoblinn | Not Suicide Ch 10

John had started by shouting. The room seemed to be door and windowless, but that simply couldn’t be true. When shouting ‘hello’ and asking for Sherlock or Mycroft did nothing John walked the perimeter with his sheet draped around him like a toga. He inched along, feeling every spot, looking for a break in the walls. He found that there were subtle seems along the corners, as though it had been constructed around him. He counted how many of his feet made up each wall by walking the edge heel to toe. It was at least near-perfectly square and counted just over 14 of his feet each way. The walls were not metal as they had first appeared, but they were highly reflective, so that he could see himself reflected infinitely in each wall. Some places were distorted. He tried pressing his face to the too-cold too-hard plastic to see out, assuming it a one-way mirror, but he could see nothing beyond it.

Eventually he realized he hadn’t inspected the sheet he was in, which upset him a great deal when it occurred to him that the past many months might have been a dream or delusion. What if he and Sherlock were not together? What if he had simply gone off the deep end in Lethoa? Gods! What if Sherlock weren’t even _back_? John pressed his nose to the sheet, breathing in Sherlock’s scent. So. That was real, or he was _really_ far-gone. Eventually he pulled it off of him and inspected the whole thing. He found stains that were clearly semen (by scent, texture, and feel) and stains that he had already identified as blood. He stretched the whole thing out on the floor, as perfectly flat as he could get it, and inspected every inch. He found a bloody handprint that on comparison turned out to be his own. His continued exploration revealed several smears, a few fingerprints, and one truly horrifying observation. In the center of the sheet was a mask of death. The stretched marks in the shape of a face, rising up where the fibers had been strained, which indicated a person had been smothered with something, complete with blood in the center where the nose had ruptured.

_That isn’t possible. They’d be able to breathe through a sheet. Unless… unless something was on top of it?_

John then inspected himself, something he probably should have done first. He looked at his hands and the smeared bloodstains on them, he looked over his knees, his chest, he even tried to peer around at his back and arse in the mirror. All it told him was that he had a few smudges of blood on him. He wasn’t Sherlock; he couldn’t draw conclusions from every smudge! Now John was frustrated and angry. He pulled the blanket up again and wrapped it around himself like a toga. He began to beat against the walls, shouting and screaming in frustration. Eventually he gave up, sagged into a corner, and fought back tears.

He couldn’t just assume the worst. Sherlock had to be alive. Somewhere. Perhaps John had been kidnapped again and the mad genius would ride in on a full head of steam and save him, tossing out a witty comment before snogging him senseless like some silly movie heroine. That gave John pause to smile and he put his head in his arms and they on his knees as he curled up tight to fantasize about Sherlock. That lasted him only until he began to shiver. The room was chilly, not cold, but not warm enough to be comfortable without clothing on. His sheet was doing him little good, especially with how he had it on him. John was tired, so he took the sheet off, folded it once to make it thicker, and curled up in a sitting position against the wall again with it wrapped around him.

Eventually he slept, but he was awakened by a loud clang. John’s head jerked up and he was just in time to see a trap door, low to the floor, sliding shut. John scurried forward and inspected the wall before the items that had been shoved through. He hadn’t noticed it because it was below his line of vision. John scolded himself and inspected it now. It was just a sliding shoot, but there was no way to pry it open from this end- assuming it wasn’t locked from the other side. He wanted to explore the rest of the room again, but his stomach was growling and a warm, nutritious scent was coming off the tray they’d slid through. That wasn’t his only pressing bodily function, but it was the only one he could address for now. Opening the lid on the plate revealed hot food: a bowl of creamy chicken broth, a thick wheat roll, and a wedge of cantaloupe. He covered it back over to keep it hot. There was no silverware on the tray, but there was a pencil and a piece of blank, white, unlined, paper.

John held the paper up, looking for a watermark, but having found one had no idea what to do with it. He took his time to memorize the pattern and then realized he hadn’t looked _up_. John studied the ceiling. There was one, dim, yellow light in the middle of the room. Making a small hole in the paper allowed him to study it a bit without hurting his eyes, but it really wasn’t that bright. It was recessed into the ceiling and covered over with clear plastic to stop him getting to it… which was ridiculous as he had nothing to stand on to allow him to get to it. He thought he saw cameras around it, but he couldn’t be sure.

Next John noted the ceiling didn’t look like the rest of the place. His floor was hard white plastic. The ceiling was hard clear plastic. Behind it appeared to be dark metal, perhaps even rusted in some places, but he had little way to direct the light to get a good look. John decided to explore a bit more and searched for more trap doors. He found another on the complete opposite side of the room. Upon pressing it a spring released and it popped open an inch. John pulled it the rest of the way and revealed a very small toilet. He could squat on this- uncomfortably- and relieve himself. Beside it on a tube was a small roll of single-ply toilet paper.

_I’m meant to be kept here for a while._

John wanted to use the facility, but he forced himself to finish his task first. A foot off was another catch-release object, revealing a very low sink with a removable metal-linked spray nozzle. He could wash his hands, get fluids, and perhaps even bathe here. He thought a moment about the design. It was possible that with a bit of effort he could yank the spray nozzle out of the wall and use the metal-link tubing as a weapon. He’d explore that idea further if he ever found out if someone was even _available_ to attack. The facilities themselves were designed like drawers, and an attempt at pushing them half-way too and reaching up revealed that they were completely encased. He couldn’t stick more than a hair out of his little prison; that made him think of DNA, so he plucked a hair off his head and stuffed it out, just in case. More searching revealed no more spring-release sections. John used his toilet, rinsed off his hands (disgusted that there was no soap) and headed back to the food.

He debated not eating it, but then debated the merits of not doing so. He had to maintain his strength. He also had nothing to loose. If what he was seeing added up then either Sherlock was coming to rescue him or he had killed the man he loved in a fit of… whatever those fits were. John picked up the bowl and took a sip. The soup clearly had vegetable stock in it as well as pureed chicken and some sort of milk or cream. Whoever was feeding him was trying to make sure he had everything he needed in one meal: protein, dairy, vegetable, fruit, and bread. He devoured it all, tearing up the bread and dipping it in the soup. It wasn’t enough and he was still left a bit hungry afterwards.

John briefly wondered how long it had been since he went to sleep in Sherlock’s arms (evidence being that had occurred). He didn’t feel sick or groggy, so he hadn’t been drugged. How had he simply been moved without awakening? Had he been catatonic? There was no injury on his head, though he did have a slight headache, so he hadn’t been knocked out. If he had been catatonic, was this a more advanced facility for mental healing? Or a prison? The advanced shape and structure just smacked of Mycroft Holmes, but what if he was wrong?

Finally John addressed his final concern. The pencil and paper. Was he meant to write a confession? Ask a question? Order his next meal? John spent a ridiculously long amount of time studying the paper and pencil, wondering that, until he realized he was just giving himself something to focus on. Instead he carefully chose his words and started writing.

_Is Sherlock hurt? If he is, did I hurt him and how bad? ~~Can~~ May I speak with him? I don’t remember anything. I have no idea how I got here. May I speak to Mycroft? _

_The food was good, but ~~I would like a bit more.~~ I’m still hungry._

_Is this a prison or a psych ward? Am I being held hostage?_

John thought it all over after having written it down. It was possible that if he had been simply kidnapped that he would be giving a hell of a lot of information away with his questions. However, this didn’t have the earmark of abduction on it. For one, he wasn’t strapped to a chair or covered in bombs. He was being cared for: albeit minimally. With that in mind he added one more note.

_I’m cold._

He put the note down on the tray and kept the pencil. He moved away from the hatch and sat against one of the walls free of spring openings. He looked at himself in the mirror walls and noted the lines of worry etched into his face. He hoped he would get some kind of relief soon.

What felt like hours passed and John got anxious. No one had come for the tray. Finally he decided that they only planned on taking it if he was asleep, so he curled up and pretended to be, letting out a few realistic snores and snuffling a bit. Nothing happened. John stood up and paced the area. Used the facilities again. Splashed some water on his face (despite discovering he only had cold water) drank some of the water (it tasted metallic) and paced some more. Every once in a while he would hold the sheet to his face and breathe in Sherlock’s scent. It helped comfort him some, but only just.

More hours passed. He was truly hungry now, his stomach clenching and growling at the food teaser he’d had before. Finally he got up and paced again, simply for something to do, and started naming the bones in his hand for the sake of sanity. When he got truly tired he curled up, shivering still, and went to sleep for real.

Once more the sound of the chute opening woke him, but he was too bleary to rush over. They’d taken his old tray, but not slid in another. His paper, which he’d had on the tray, was gone with it, so he hoped for results still. His hopes were dashed when he woke what felt like a few hours later to the sound of a tray being slid in. The exact same meal and a piece of paper; no pencil so they had noticed he’d kept the old one. John devoured the meal, going so far as to lick the bowl.

John pondered what to write this time and finally decided on an apology.

_I’m sorry. Tell Sherlock I love him. I never meant to hurt him._

John slipped that on the tray and curled up in the corner with the sheet over his head. He doubted it hid the fact he was silently weeping.

XXXXXXXXXXX

Mycroft studied Sherlock’s unconscious and battered form. His mobile phone showed him a different scene, though the four black and white pictures were almost too small to see. Mycroft didn’t care. He had a small magnifying glass with him. It was essential to keep Sherlock’s assailant in view at all times. It kept him from doing something irrational. The last time he’d seen his brother like this was after a nasty drug binge. He’d nearly died then, and he’d come horrifyingly close to doing so this time. If he were lucky enough to get away with his life, would he be brain-dead? His genius brother, who he still saw as a tiny five-year-old boy with intelligent eyes and a wild imagination, was all he had left in this world.

Mycroft studied the images, watching John Watson pace from wall to wall looking for a way out. He hoped the man did not find what he sought.

XXXXXXXXXXX

John counted the meals. They were the closest things he had to a clock. Upon realizing they were somewhat regular, he spent an entire two cycles awake and counting the seconds in between meals. He came up with 43,412 for the first cycle and 43,132 for the second. Allowing for margin of error, he was being fed roughly every twelve hours. He counted backwards; picked the section he didn’t sleep on, and marked the white floor with his pencil. It would keep him sane, he hoped.

The lights never turned off. They also never got brighter, which was a comfort considering the reflective room. They remained dim enough to not cause eyestrain, but too bright to allow for comfortable sleep. Add to that the cold, hard floor and walls that were his only bed and John was soon in a good deal of pain. He had a constant headache, his joints– especially his shoulder from his war injury- pained him, his stomach was never full but never empty enough to become dull with hunger. He was often thirsty because slaking his thirst meant huddling over the tiny sink and slurping from the faucet or spraying it into his mouth and getting air with it. One day he’d stupidly drunk far too much water to fill up his stomach and gotten the trots something awful. That was when he found out the toilet, which only spat out enough water to wash his mess down before draining, was far from superior to an average toilet. His entire area stank for days and he resolved not to be so foolish again.

John needed activity to keep from going mad so he began to find ways to amuse himself. He played games on the paper delivered with each meal, challenging his mind with mathematics and working things out by hand. He played tic-tack-toe. He doodled. He wrote Sherlock’s name over and again in different styles until he realized he would look either mad or like an infatuated teenaged girl. He was never allowed to keep the paper. If he put it someplace out of the reach of the door a mechanical arm would reach in and snatch it up. He tried to wrestle for it once, but the arm was electrified and he was quickly rendered unconscious. They skipped a meal to punish him. John now knew how he’d been moved. Electrocution would explain why he hadn’t been sick or bruised when he’d shown up. He also hadn’t found a tasers burn point, but perhaps they’d found a way of getting him between his toes or something. He’d been rather frantic; it wouldn’t be a shock (no pun intended) to have missed something in his self-diagnosis.

John also continued to slip a piece of hair out the latrine and sink gap every day. He had no idea why, except that it kept him hoping for rescue. Somewhere out there were little bits of his DNA, and if Sherlock Holmes were alive he would find them. If he were alive. If he cared. If he didn’t hate John for whatever the man had done. If… if… if…

XXXXXXXXXXX

“I’m glad you came to me with this, Sherlock,” Mycroft soothed, “But it is long since time that you gave up your search. John is gone; whether of his own accord or some others. We would have been contacted by now if they were keeping him alive someplace.”

“You still think he left me!” Sherlock snapped, “He wouldn’t have done! Not without at least apologizing!”

“You mentioned that he had memory gaps after his fits, perhaps he didn’t recall what he’d done.”

“He’d have seen the sheet, Mycroft! The bloody sheet that was missing from my room! The only thing gone that _wasn’t_ his!”

“Sherlock,” Mycroft sighed, “You aren’t as aware of the complexities of the world as I am. John ‘Three Continents’ Watson got what he wanted from you. He got it and moved on.”

“He simply can’t have done it himself,” Sherlock insisted as he paced Mycroft’s office, “There was _nothing_ not a single clue as to who had taken him and how it was done. It’s too _professional_.”

“Sherlock, you’re making this more complex than it is. He likely hired a cleaning service to go thru after he left – with _your_ money which you _don’t_ monitor, which is why you wouldn’t have noticed it. The man has been living with you on and off for some time, he had to have learned _something_ from you, and how to leave you without a scrap of evidence is certainly the first thing _I’d_ try to learn if I was planning on really punishing you for…”

Mycroft cut himself off with a wince and Sherlock froze: “For what, Mycroft?”

“For pretending to be dead, an action I advised against from the start. He was _obsessed_ with you, and it had become unhealthy long before Lethoa.”

“Which is _exactly_ why he did not leave on his own!” Sherlock snarled, slamming his hands down on Mycroft’s desk.

“His behavior was irrational and violent, Sherlock. He nearly killed you that night. Even if it wasn’t on purpose- as I believe it was- then he was still responsible for assaulting the man who was allowing him to stalk him. What do you think he would do?”

Sherlock paused and ran that analysis through his mind: “Kill himself, perhaps sparing me the horror of discovering his body.”

“Precisely.”

“I don’t have the time to explain to you how wrong your theory is. _Find. Him._ ”

XXXXXXXXXXX

Three months. He’d been here three months, if his calculations were correct. He’d figured out the math ages ago and managed to calculate how much physical activity he should do per caloric intake. He would walk the perimeter of his prison three times each day, avoiding stepping on his ‘calendar’ and counting his paces to keep his mind active. Eventually he started trying to collect things from the tray table, like the plastic bowl and cover. They let him for a bit, apparently just to see what he would do. When he stacked them and stood on them to reach the light the arm came shooting in and knocked him down and collected all the bowls while he screamed at it.

John’s schedule had adjusted naturally to match that of the food tray. He woke when it came through and he ate and then went to sleep when it came through again. The fruit sometimes varied, which was a relief, but he gagged on the rest of it and forced it down. He’d gotten desperate enough to start experimenting with ways to change the flavor. One day he’d chewed up the fruit and spat it out on the bread to make it feel like he was eating bread and jam. Another day he’d put the fruit in the soup. It had been foul, but different, and he’d eaten it with relish.

XXXXXXXXX

Four months and he smelled. The prison smelled. The blanket smelled- and no longer of Sherlock no matter which section he carefully sniffed. He was angry with himself for not ripping off a spot to keep separate with Sherlock’s scent on it; too late now. He _had_ to wash. John folded his sheet up into sections and stood on it while he washed himself down with the water from the sink. He scratched at his skin since he had no soap or way to scrub besides his filthy sheet. His nails he’d been trimming with his teeth and they were sharp in some spots, so he ended up with broken skin in places. When he was done he still smelled a bit and his teeth were chattering, but he no longer felt gritty, his hair and beard no longer oily and foul. He then lifted up his sheet and washed it over and again in the sink, determined to get it as clean as possible since he couldn’t afford the chill of cleaning it again anytime soon. Once it was clean he used it to mop up his floor and walls ( _not_ the toilet) having memorized the number on his calendar to re-write it later. Then he washed the sheet and wrung it out again. There was no place to hang it, so he stretched it out across the floor to dry and huddled in a corner. He had quite lost track of the time and was surprised when his food was pushed in along with a fresh pencil. His had broken yesterday. John mentally added one to the tally and collected the pencil  & paper.

**_Kill me._ **

He wrote it in large block letters across the entire side of the paper and, amused with it, began to draw morbid scenes along and inside the letters and across the back. That and the myriad of scratches along his body from washing up led him to a fresh idea, one he was surprised he hadn’t thought of before.

What if he was to harm himself? Would they provide medical care? Would they leave him to become infected and die? It merited thought and John began to toy with the concept. He wasn’t fool enough to write it down, because he already knew they read everything he wrote. Instead he made a list in his mind, repeating it again and again until he was sure he wasn’t going to forget it. With his constant discomfort he rarely was as alert as was normal. Sometimes he couldn’t remember what his sister looked like, or his mother’s voice, or the smell of his father’s pipe. Sometimes he couldn’t remember Sherlock’s voice, and those days were the worst because he felt as though he’d betrayed the man (again?).

_Distracted. Thinking about other things. Focus. List. Pros and cons of harming myself._

_Cons_

_-might be permanently disfigured_

_-might get infection_

_~~-might be left to die~~ _

_Pros_

_-might see a person/find out who is holding me hostage_

_-might get medical care (shower?)_

_-might be left to die (freedom)_

John played it around in his head over and again, then started on a new list now that he had determined that injuring himself was the best bet.

_ 1. _ _~~Hands~~ – need those for future survival/trade. if I have a future._

_ 2. _ _~~Feet~~ – need to walk/exercise_

_ 3. _ _~~Knees~~ – too permanent_

_ 4. _ _~~Hip~~ – too difficult_

_ 5. _ _~~Back~~ – too dangerous_

_ 6. _ _~~Shoulder~~ – been there, done that_

_ 7. _ _~~Elbows~~ – too permanent_

_ 8. _ _~~Neck~~ – too dangerous_

9. _Head – risk of concussion and death_

_Well… head it is then._

John waited until his sheet was dry and he was able to neatly fold it up – he didn’t want to dirty it up again. He re-wrote his calendar as 120 DAYS on the floor and then added a few slashes for the next 12-hour counts since his washday hadn’t fallen exactly on the 120 day mark. He then made a list of options. He had all of two. Bash his head into a wall or bash his head into the corner of his sink. _Sink it is then_. John pulled out the sink, did some mental calculations, decided on the back of the head, stiffened his legs and torso while keeping his neck loose, and let himself fall backwards.

Stars exploded behind John’s eyes and he toppled sideways, glad he’d pushed the toilet in or he’d have face-planted on it. He lay still a moment, gasping in pain and trying to assess the damage. A touch to the back of his head once it stopped spinning let him know that he was bleeding, and quite profusely. Which led to another- even more twisted- idea.

With a chuckle, John levered himself into a standing position and struggled to think straight. He didn’t want to write Sherlock’s name; he’d already decided that was quite mad. He needed a symbol…

**_Rache_ **

John laughed when he saw it. German for ‘revenge’, short for Rachel, and a symbol of their first case and the moment he’d fallen in love with Sherlock Holmes. John collected more blood and smeared it across another wall, nearly falling over as he staggered across the room. Then he beat the front of his head against the corner of the sink to make more blood and crawled to the other two walls to do the same.

Finally he curled up in the middle of the floor, tugged his sheet into a toga, and fell asleep. With any luck he’d wake up in a medical facility and get some answers. Or not wake up at all.

XXXXXXXXXX

“Sherlock,” Mycroft sighed, “What have I told you about breaking into my office and using my computer. Regardless of how ‘easy’ it is for you to guess my password- no matter what I change it to- there is top secret government information on that computer… and we know how well you keep a secret.”

“Better than you, apparently,” Sherlock replied, and something in the tone made Mycroft pause.

He looked up from where he’d been pouring himself a glass of scotch and found his brother’s eyes intense on the screen, his body so utterly still: like a viper coiled and waiting to strike.

_Dear gods, he’s seen the feed_.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft stated, his voice soft and worried, “I can explain.”

“You can explain why my lover- who you have been assisting me in searching for after I came up with nothing- is lying in a pool of blood in a mimicry of our first crime scene together, with ‘Rache’ written on the walls of what appear to be a cell, which just _happens_ to have a live feed onto your personal computer?”

“What do you mean ‘a pool of blood’?” Mycroft asked in alarm.

Mycroft leaned over Sherlock, one hand on the chair-back and one on the desk, and looked at the feed over his shoulder. It was strategic, him placing himself so close to Sherlock at that moment, like an animal baring its neck to show it was not going to fight. Sherlock would either accept the show of submission or rip his throat out– quite possibly literally.

“Dear gods,” Mycroft breathed, and snatched up his mobile. He punched in the number from memory and listened to the ring while Sherlock likely deduced all number of correct and incorrect theories without removing his eyes from the screen. Was he counting Watson’s breaths? Were there breaths? Finally the phone was answered, “You were supposed to keep him safe!”

[CHAPTER ELEVEN](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/41735.html)


	11. vincentmeoblinn | Not Suicide Ch 11

“Perhaps now you will be willing to deal with us, Mycroft Holmes,” The familiar voice on the other end of the phone replied softly.

“The British Government can _not_ give in to terrorism!” Mycroft shouted into his mobile.

“How can you consider it terrorism when the British Government will _benefit_ from our studies? All you must do is grant us permission once more. The American Government already has.”

“The Americans are idiots if they think they can control you!”

“So are you if you think I’m not completely serious. Do try to remember: It was supposed to be your brother in this cage. Do you think he’d have held up as long? You should see all the cute doodles your brother’s lover has been making.”

“Mycroft,” Sherlock snapped, and Mycroft looked down to see all four cameras had switched to show a picture drawn on paper. Some were rather good… if morbid. **Kill Me** written across one of them was rather alarming.

“I see them,” Mycroft stated, and the cameras immediately switched back to John. As Mycroft watched Sherlock visibly relaxed. So. He saw something then that indicated John was alive, because frankly Mycroft didn’t see him breathing.

“Are we ready to do business, Mr. Holmes?”

“Never. John is useless to you. I would not have caved in even if you had managed to get ahold of Sherlock himself, let alone give you what you demand because you have his certifiably insane _lover_. I…”

Mycroft suddenly found himself with two arms wrapped tightly around his head, one of them pressed against his carotid arteries.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft choked out, “don’t!”

Blackness.

XXX

Sherlock used Mycroft’s tie to bind his hands behind him and picked up his fallen phone.

“Hello, this is Sherlock Holmes, I believe you have something of mine. Let’s do business, shall we?”

“You can’t provide us with what he can.”

“Dr. Franklin? Well, this is a surprise.”

“A bigger one than you think. I’ve gone by a similar name, and you never even noticed. So much for being the world’s greatest consulting detective.”

“Dr. Frank _land!_ ” Sherlock exclaimed, laughing a bit, “Oh, you _are_ good! How did you pull this off? I saw you blown into tiny bits by a land mine.”

“There _were_ no land mines left, which your brother well knew if you’d have asked him. I stepped on a planned little pyrotechnics display and bits of fake plastic body parts flew up in the air while I ducked behind a _bush._ All that was needed after was some minor forging of my already existing documents to say Franklin instead of Frankland and some facial surgery. Lost a bit of weight, too.”

“ _Mazel tov_. So my brother has known all along that you were alive,” Sherlock propped his feet up on his brother’s torso.

“Quite.”

“And you want money to continue your research for H.O.U.N.D.”

“Correct again, I suppose you are a _bit_ smart.”

“You aren’t the ones who collected John from my flat. _You_ aren’t _that_ smart.”

“No, Mycroft did all the work for us. I had his little organization infiltrated with my own H.O.U.N.D. addicted affiliates. The cell they put John in is meant for criminals of war crimes. They can be kept in it forever, or the entire cell can be picked up and transported to another country without ever opening it. It’s like those… those big _containers_. You know the ones? The portable storage units.”

“I’ve seen them. Fascinating, but I don’t see a door,” Sherlock observed.

“You’re looking in the wrong place. The cameras cover every inch _except_ the door, because the cameras are in it! The thing opens from the top like a bin, which is probably what the designer wanted.”

“Let’s talk business, shall we?”

“Again: You can’t give us what we want.”

“I’m sitting in front of Mycroft’s computer and he is unconscious _literally_ beneath my feet. I can give anyone, anything, but first you’re going to give me an act of good will.”

“He’s unconscious. He can’t talk.”

“It’s not his voice I’m concerned with. I’m going to transfer money to you. A good chunk of it. That’s my show of force,” While Sherlock was explaining this he had minimized the window showing the feed of John, opened another, and started pulling money from various banks across England, “Once you receive it you are going to give him medical treatment. Once I see him awake and well we can talk H.O.U.N.D.”

“I want permission, Sherlock, not money. I started this for the Queen and I want to finish it for her. I want my research to be allowed back in the country.”

“Oh, it will, Dr. Frankland. It will. You will be welcomed home like a king if I have to sit on this particular throne until the day you die… of natural causes, of course.”

XXXXXXXXXXX

John woke up on a soft mattress with warm blankets over his body. The same dim light was above his head as before, but it was no longer aching. He rather blamed the fluids dripping into his arm, one of which appeared to be morphine if his bleary eyes were reading the label correctly. Morphine for a head injury? How much damage had he done? Or were they just trying to keep him complacent.

“Comfortable, John?” Dr. Franklin asked him, and John smiled up at the man in relief. He was sitting on a stool in John’s little prison with a comforting smile on his face, “I’m so proud of you, John. Not for harming yourself, no, but for the rest… You’ve done admirably under these conditions. I must admit, I was against you going through this rather intense therapy, but you haven’t had a nightmare in… how long now? Four months?”

“Three. I had a few in the beginning,” John corrected mindlessly.

“Ah, yes. Is your morphine high enough? We didn’t want you a zombie, but you’ve been in such discomfort…”

“It’s fine. Is Sherlock all right?”

“Quite fine, fully recovered in fact. It was a bit touch and go for a bit, his brain had been denied oxygen for a bit and there was some trauma to his throat, but he made a full recovery. I’d advise you never to look at the photographs, though,” Dr. Franklin replied with a worried look, “His entire face was black and blue. Looked worse than some boxers I’ve known.”

John swallowed down his horror at that, “Can I… does he want to…”

“You want to speak with him? I can’t allow him to interfere in your treatment again, but I’ll allow a phone call. He’s a bit pissed off at me. Mycroft was kind enough to make sure he couldn’t find you this time. I _did_ warn you that your relationship with him was… unhealthy.”

“I just want to tell him I’m sorry,” John choked out.

“Of course, completely understandable. Just let me get a landline in here.”

Dr. Franklin waved towards John’s light and a moment later his trap door hissed open and a phone was pushed in, the cord attached like the old style phones he’d grown up with. A voice drifted through the open hatch, the first voice he’d heard in months besides Dr. Franklin’s.

An American voice.

John carefully eased the needles from his arm. _At least I’m not feeling sick from it. This drowsiness is bad, though. Can I stand? I think I can stand. Maybe._

“We don’t get much reception here,” Dr. Franklin explained, lifting the phone to dial it.

“Wait,” John urged, stalling for time, “I’m not ready yet. What… what do I say to him? Gods, I abused him horribly! We’d only just made love! I don’t even remember it.”

Dr. Franklin smiled kindly, “You apologize, my dear boy, and let nature take its course. If he forgives you then all is well, if not then we can focus on you breaking your addiction to Mr. Holmes and moving on with your life.”

“I don’t have a life without Sherlock,” John replied, his voice cracking was honestly not planned.

“You will learn to live without him, much as you learned to live without war.”

“Sherlock brought the war to me. It’s the same addiction,” John replied, but his head really wasn’t clearing. How long did it take for morphine symptoms to wear off? Three hours? Four? He couldn’t keep the man talking that long. Hell, they’d check the drip before then.

“Let’s just take it one day at a time, then, hmm?”

Dr. Franklin looked annoyed and John didn’t want to push him too far, but he had to do just one more thing: “Can I sit up? I don’t want to be on my back when I talk to him.”

“Sure, I’ll help.”

Dr. Franklin put the phone on the floor and then helped John sit up. John was relieved to find his head wasn’t spinning in circles. Hell, it wasn’t his first dose of morphine, now was it? He could probably chase Sherlock around with this puny amount in his veins! Dr. Franklin picked the phone back up and dialed a number from memory before handing it to John. It rang twice before Sherlock answered.

“Hello, John.”

“Sherlock, oh, gods,” John sobbed, not prepared at all for the emotional backlash of hearing his voice.

“I’m going to get you out of there.”

“I’m sorry. He told me. Your whole face black and blue?”

“I’ve had worse. Don’t harm yourself again.”

“I won’t. I… gods, I love you.”

“Same. Put Frankland on.”

John blinked at the mix-up with the name, but then handed the phone over nonetheless. It was a moment before he connected the dots.

“Sherlock, I hope all is _well_? Yes, we’ll be keeping John under close observation from now on. I’m afraid he’ll be moved soon, so your feed will be interrupted, but we’ll have a new one set up post haste. Good day.”

John relaxed a bit, lying back down and making sure the IV drip still _looked_ attached to his arm. Just a bit of moving of tape and that was all perfect.

“What are you doing?”

“Sorry, doctors habit. You understand. Always checking the nurses’ work. They hated me in Afghanistan. Damn stickler for rules.”

Franlin… Frank _land_ laughed a bit and then knocked on the wall again. The phone was dragged back through and then something alarming happened. John’s ceiling moved.

XXXXXXXXXXX

“Sherlock, you have to believe me. I only locked John up for his own good. Hell, it was to protect him from me! If I’d laid eyes on him after what he’d done…”

“He was not under his own power,” Sherlock snarled, giving Mycroft a decidedly sharp kick.

“Ah! Damn it, Sherlock! I’m your brother! I care about you! I was trying to protect…!”

Sherlock cocked the pistol he’d found taped to the bottom of Mycroft’s desk and aimed it at his brother’s head.

“John,” Sherlock explained, “Is the only person I’ve ever felt anything for. You do _not_ want to test the limits of my sociopathic urges outside of that one person. I would feel no remorse in killing you, Mycroft. The only question is, will you be of use to me, or do I dispense of you now.”

“No! Don’t! I… I’ll help you get him back!” Mycroft replied, trembling from head to toe. His arms had to be numb by now.

“Indeed,” Sherlock replied, re-snapping the safety on the gun, “Let’s talk personnel.”

XXXXXXXXXX

John’s gurney had been lifted out by crane and he’d been placed on the floor of the rather large warehouse. The white lights hand blinded him at first, having been too long used to the muted tones of his prison cell. That was probably a good thing as his gaping about might have caused them to increase his morphine, which he now realized was meant to keep him complacent. He was wheeled into a nearby hospital section and laid beside a man who was strapped to his bed and looking around with wild eyes. The ‘hospital’ was merely some dividers with a desk or two and some standard medical equipment. It looked more mobile than the MASH unit he’d worked in while in Afghanistan.

_HOUND subject or another victim like me?_ John wondered of the man beside him.

John waited until the nurses had surrounded him and were distracted by his unhooked IV (no fooling a professional) then elbowed one in the face and slammed his palm into the nose of the second. John was off the gurney and across to the strapped man instantly. He pulled his restraints free while glancing around for a weapon, but the man proved to be a better weapon than any he could find. He took off across the warehouse, screaming and waving his arms. No one even noticed John had silently escaped!

John snatched a lab coat off of the back of a chair and threw it on before grabbing a first aid kit off the wall, a bottle of water from the counter, and a pair of scissors to use as a weapon. John peered around one of the dividers, noted a door, and took off for it with his head down low. They weren’t nearly as distracted as he’d have liked and a few shots were fired his way. He made it to the door and out, was nearly blinded by the sun, but took off like a deer regardless. He went left, if only because most people would go right, and was crashing through underbrush.

He’d expected a city. He’d expected to negotiate people, not trees. He hadn’t expected sharp sticks and stones under his bare feet, or to slip in mud, or that so many people would come crashing after him so quickly. John found a hiding place, but passed it. Too nearby. Not safe.

He passed a farmhouse. _That_ would slow them down! They’d assume he’d duck into the first place he’d see, but he’d ducked into the corn instead. His energy was low. He was tired and shaky, but he knew he had to keep going. He found a path between the corn so he wouldn’t shake it and took off, regulating his breathing and keeping his eyes focused straight ahead to avoid becoming dizzy. He came out of the corn on a road, nearly getting hit by a car, but he darted straight into the next row of corn and kept going.

John ran past that point of burn that tried to convince you your body was at it’s limit. He’d hit that before, although not when he’d undergone months of low activity and too little calorie intake. Technically he was not suffering from malnutrition, though he knew he’d lost weight. John passed a second farmhouse, ducked into the woods by their house, and collapsed in a pile of leaves and needles. John panted and gasped for breath before downing the entire bottle of water he’d taken. Then he examined his feet. They were caked with mud and manure, and in absolute agony, but he didn’t see any blood or signs of broken toes. With the morphine still in his system (though the sweating might have helped with that) then he might not have noticed an injury.

John stretched out on his back and stared up at the sky, allowing his breathing to slow naturally. It was beautiful. Gorgeous. The sky was blue, turning purple in places as the sunset, and there were dozens of fluffy white-tinged-pink clouds. He took in a deep breath of the air around him, glorying in the smell of pine, cedar, and leaf decay. He closed his eyes and slept.

John awoke sometime close to noon the next morning as the sun began to beat down on him. He was relieved that he’d awoken before getting sun burnt, though he could probably use the vitamins from the sun. He stood up, followed his nose to a creek, and washed up as best he could. The morning was getting hot and humid. John wrapped the lab coat around him like a diaper in order to be a bit cooler; he was going to avoid attention, and wearing it normally would draw as much as this would.

John skirted the edge of the woods, watching the lay of the land, and passed the second farmhouse up as well. Instead, after two hours of walking, he stopped at the second. His head was clearer now, having slept off the worst of the morphine. He felt confident that he could manage taking the house over, despite the fact he was armed with scissors and they likely had a whole mess of shotguns. John took a deep breath, glanced around the property, and pulled back just in time.

A military styled vehicle had just pulled up and they were heading for the house. HOUND was still looking for him.

XXXXXXXXXX

Sherlock smirked as Dr. Franklin/land lay groveling at his feet.

“Really, Liberty Indiana? Could you _be_ more obvious?”

“Took you nearly five months to find me, didn’t it?”

“Only because you were so completely _obvious_ and my charming brother kept secrets from me,” Sherlock narrowed his eyes at his brother who looked uncomfortable but offered no other words, “Now then.”

Sherlock stepped forward and kicked the man between the legs, he grunted- all the air leaving his lungs- and sagged sideways. Sherlock waited for him to regain his breath and then crouched down and planted his handgun at his temple.

“Where. Is. John.”

“All your brilliance, and this is what you resort to,” Dr. Frankland panted, “Brute force and threats?”

“I don’t need to be subtle, do I? I also don’t have the time for it. John. Now.”

“He ran. My men are out searching for him now. If I don’t check in with them they’ll shoot him on sight.”

“Lie,” Sherlock sighed, and pulled the trigger.

XXXXXXXXX

John watched their formation. It was mediocre at best. A gap allowed him to slip forward and scale the lower level onto the first floor roof. He then made it up to the second floor window and from there to the attic window. Attic windows were never locked. He forced the rusty thing open and dragged himself through, relieved that his weight had dropped enough to allow his hips entry. Once in he found a large box – Christmas tree- emptied it onto the floor, turned it so the label wasn’t obvious, and ducked inside. He pulled some random flotsam on top of him and pulled the lid closed. They came up about half an hour later, just when John was getting desperate from the stifling heat.

“Look at this hideous shit,” One of the soldiers laughed, “Fucking Americans.”

“Yeah, they think they’re the shit just because they hoard all this stuff. Wasteful is what they are.”

“M-hm.”

They poked around a bit, checked his box but didn’t move the junk on top of him, and left again. John clamored out of his box once a suitable bit of time had passed. Took several gulps of must air, and then checked back out the window. The coast appeared clear so he dropped down as silently as possible. He went in through the kitchen window, grabbed a knife, and snatched up the first person he saw. It was an armed guard. Shit.

“Weapons down. Now. Trust me, I’ve killed before; I’ll do it again. Without loosing a wink of sleep.”

Weapons were lowered to the floor and John slipped the gun from the pocket of the man he held hostage.

“Not a single wink,” John sighed. Then he slipped the safety off and shot three men before they could take more than a step.

“Oh gods, please don’t!” The man he was holding hostage sobbed, “I’ve got kids!”

“Where are the houses occupants?”

“Out! We never saw them!”

“That’s a plus. How many others?”

“Two, both outside.”

“Not for long. They’ll have heard those shots.”

John angled himself and sure enough two men burst in, one on each side. John took out the nearest one and angled his hostage to cover himself for the other. The man hesitated and that was long enough. A bullet through his eyes took out that threat. The man he was holding on to was weeping openly now. John pushed him away and hit him with the butt of the gun. He hit the floor hard and John used his belt to lash him to a chair.

John set about fortifying the house. He chained the attic doors shut, barred the windows, and when the family returned (from a church social, apparently) he held them at gunpoint; a woman, man, and their teenage son. The son was dressed all in black, despite the nice clothing for church, and had a variety of piercings and very dyed black hair.

_Goth,_ John’s mind supplied.

“Downstairs. Into the basement,” John ordered.

“Now just calm down,” The father urged, “You don’t want to do this, son.”

“Where’s the nearest city? How far?”

“Twenty miles. Liberty.”

“Liberty Indiana?” John asked, laughing a bit.

“Yes, sir.”

“Basement. Now.” John urged, “I’ve killed a lot of people today and I’d rather not add innocent bystanders to that list, but by the gods, I’ll do it if I have to.”

“We can help you,” the father tried.

“No you can’t. You really can’t. In fact, the sooner you’re away from me the safer you’ll be. I’m not right in the head. I could snap at any…”

The son bolted forward, the mother screamed and tried to snatch him back, and in the blink of an eye John was somewhere else.

_“You killed my papi! You killed him!”_

_The boy was barely a teenager, held the gun unsteadily in one hand, and was crying far too hard to see where John was standing, let alone take aim._

_“You don’t want to do this, son,” John urged, “I don’t want to kill you. Just walk away. Go take care of your brother. Your mum doesn’t need to loose a child.”_

_“You killed my papi!!”_

_John fired before the boy could and the weapon spun to the ground, the boy clutched a bleeding hand to his chest and wailed miserably. He dropped to his knees, rocking back and forth. A whisper in John’s ear spoke horrors._

_“No witnesses, Detective,” John’s codename sounded so utterly ironic at this point, “Kill him.”_

_“He’s just a child, UJ,” John argued._

_“He’s a witness. Kill him. Be merciful about it, if you must, but do so. Now. Or I will remove you from the program and your revenge will end here.”_

_“I’m sorry,” John whispered as he stepped forward, “I’m not allowed to take hostages and… I’m sorry.”_

_“No! Please!” The boy threw his arms over his head, but John’s aim was perfect. In a moment a still form lay on the ground in a growing puddle of blood, two dark eyes staring up at him from cinnamon skin and silken black hair._

_John made it over the garden wall and into the van that was to pick him up before he was violently ill…_

John blinked and the world re-focused. Sobbing. A woman’s voice. The wall was peppered with holes, but no one had been shot. The mother and father were cowering on the floor with their son wrapped tightly in their arms.

“Fuck,” John whispered, and then spoke louder, “The basement. Now. Before I go off again.”

The couple bolted, dragging their shaking son with them, and John shut the door and pushed a heavy curio cabinet in front of it. He’d stocked it with a bucket of water, an empty bucket to relieve themselves in, a can opener, and some canned food. Now that the family was secured John went upstairs and took a long, long shower. He trimmed his beard before shaving it all the way off with the father’s razor. He showered again. He ate. And ate. And finally packed a bag with a few essentials. Before he left the little farmhouse he called the police, read off the address from a nearby bill, and then left the phone off the hook.

[CHAPTER TWELVE](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/41989.html)


	12. vincentmeoblinn | Not Suicide Ch 12

_John stood up from bed, his mind made up. He was never going to kill again: except he’d been trained to do nothing else. His medical side felt dead. What had happened to Sherlock’s ‘good doctor’? Dead and gone, just like Sherlock. John might as well be the same. He pulled his pocket knife from his dresser drawer and dragged the blade across his wrist, swearing at the last moment as he realized his shaking hand had botched the cut._

_I can’t even take my own life the right way!_

John gasped and sat up with a start, his hand wrapping around his right wrist, but there was no blood; just a scar, white and starting to fade already. John was in those woods again, deep in them. He had realized he was in Whitewater Memorial State Park. As long as he avoided the campers there was no chance in hell of them finding him here. He was going to wait a few months, get them off his trail, and then use the cash he’d stolen from the farmers to get a hold of Sherlock. He was a survivor. He’d make it.

_John was in the kitchen making a sandwich… he was in Afghanistan and one of those damn bugs had stung his finger! John sliced it open immediately to pry the stinger out and slow the spread of venom. Now he just had to get the anti-toxin, which was in his bag and… John blinked down at his bleeding finger in horror. How had he? Damn! Sherlock was going to be furious! He’d cut three of his fingers open! John fumbled for the first aid kit and started patching himself up. How the hell was he going to pass this off?_

John gave his head a shake and looked around. He hadn’t moved from the spot he’d last been in: his tiny little camp, with only a small fire to ward off bugs and animals. The bugs hadn’t been impressed and mosquitoes had eaten him alive. Wasn’t there a pretty bad outbreak of West Nile Virus in America? He needed to make a lean-to against that big rock in order to make sure he was safe tonight, though that wouldn’t keep out the damn mosquitoes, either. Maybe if he burned some pine needles? There were enough campers out here that he’d be unlikely to draw attention to himself with a couple of small, cooking-pan-contained, smoke-fires on either side of the lean-to.

_Sherlock was sleeping so beautifully, his arm slung across John’s torso. The only problem was that John was still a loaded gun. He was terrified that he might hurt… Mycroft! That bastard! He’d done this! Ruined his life! What the_ hell _was he doing in Sherlock’s bed?! John grabbed a sheet and through it over the bastards head so he didn’t have to look at him. He was going to go find Sherlock, tell him that his brother was being creepy and sleeping in his bed, but then a thought occurred to him. He could finish this now. He’d never have to take orders from Mycroft again. Wouldn’t have to shoot any innocent, heartbroken teenagers. He’d made John into a killer, surely he deserved to reap the benefits of his training? John kneeled on either side of Mycroft’s shoulders, pressing the sheet down onto his face with his hands. He began to struggle instantly, but his arms were already pinned. John pressed harder, determined to make this long and have him choke on his blood. Sure enough it welled up and the man began to sputter as the ruptured blood moved into his throat. It wasn’t enough, he was still breathing through his mouth! John released the sheet and covered his hands over both nose and mouth. The sheet shifted and… Oh, gods! Sherlock! John stumbled off of Sherlock who gasped for air and then fainted away. John checked his pulse, turned him to the side, and hurriedly called for an ambulance. Mycroft was chiming Sherlock’s phone almost immediately._

_“I hurt him,” John sobbed into Sherlock’s phone, “Damn you, you did this to me! You made me this! I’m a monster because of you! I hurt the man I love!”_

_“Is he alive?!” Mycroft demanded._

_“No thanks to you! I thought he was you! Why the hell can’t I stop seeing things?! What did you do to me?!”_

John doubled over and threw up until he was left with dry heaves. There wasn’t enough left in his stomach to be as spectacularly sick as that memory deserved.

XXXXXXXXXXX

“What do you mean ‘he was fighting demons’?” Sherlock asked.

“Just what I said, sir,” The farmer replied in a truly atrocious accent, “He was arguing with someone called UJ, kept refusing to kill my son. Finally he screamed that he was going to put an end to UJ’s orders, took the gun off my son, and shot the wall eight times.”

“What happened then?”

“He came back to himself, eyes stopped being wild, told us to get into the cellar before he hurt us without meaning to. His gun was empty, but I don’t think he realized. We weren’t going to argue anyway.”

“So…” Sherlock smirked at Mycroft, “He’s trying to kill UJ.”

“A psychological break, clearly,” Mycroft replied uncomfortably.

“Or breakthrough,” Sherlock replied, “Tell me, how did he behave after you forced him to kill a teenager?”

“He was sick all over the van my people picked him up in. Then he looked around him in apparent confusion and asked them who they were. He’d been working with them for eighteen months. I had him committed immediately.”

“In Lethoa?”

“Of course.”

“He doesn’t recall?”

“No.”

“Lethoa determined?”

“That he’d had a psychotic break and was no longer fit to serve. They put him through some hypnosis treatment and it appeared to be effective in that he was cleared for civilian life. He returned to the flat three days before you showed up and apparently puttered about as he had shortly after Mary died. He seemed to have no recollection of the events that had taken place so I took precautions and made sure nothing seemed out of the ordinary. An agent removed all trace of his service with MI6 from the flat.”

“No wonder he responded to hypnosis so quickly if he’d had it before. Dr. Franklin was his doctor then?”

“Yes.”

“God knows what he did to him,” Sherlock sighed.

“Well, seeing as how you killed him, we’ll never know.”

Sherlock ignored him and was about to leave when the lad caught at his sleeve, “Mr?”

“Yes?” Sherlock asked, peering down at the intelligent eyes that met him.

“Are you Sherlock? Sherlock Holmes? You look a bit like the fellow from the news…”

“Sorry, wrong person. We Englishmen all look alike. It’s the teeth,” Sherlock replied and began to pull away.

“It’s just that he was talking to Sherlock, too,” The lad replied insistently.

Sherlock stilled and glanced back, “What did he say?”

“That he was sorry that he couldn’t take revenge for you anymore. That he’d failed you.”

“Well, clearly I’m not the person he was speaking to, because he has _never_ failed me.”

The lad smiled and Sherlock gave him a half grin in reply before nodding to his mother.

“Keep an eye oh him, Mrs. Johnson.”

“I will, sir,” She replied, tugging her son closer. He squirmed a bit, but allowed it. After the hell John had put them through even a surly teenager needed his mummy.

Sherlock, Mycroft, and the agents with them headed out the door and slipped back into their borrowed American military truck. It had taken a week to get clearance to enter American soil and take down HOUND. It had taken a day after that to get permission to question the farmers. Now after begging, borrowing, and demanding time they were being given a deadline: get their foreign agent off American soil in three days or the US military was going after him.

“You know him best, Sherlock. Where would John have gone after this?” Mycroft asked.

“He took supplies for survival, he’ll go to the woods. There’s a State Park near here, he’ll be there.”

“He took the contents of their medicine cabinet, a large can of coffee, a blanket, and clothes,” Mycroft scoffed; clearly still doubting John’s sanity.

“He took matches, too, and he did _not_ take the coffee.”

“Ah, yes. I did notice they were oddly lacking in matches and lighters despite having those irritating scented candles all about. You’ve lost me on the coffee, though, they specified he’d taken a can of coffee.”

“The garden, Mycroft. There were coffee grounds scattered in the garden. Some people use them for compost, but they did not have a compost heap, nor is Mrs. Johnson an avid enough gardener to go through the trouble. John took a coffee _can_.”

“What would he need a coffee can for?”

“A stove, of course,” Sherlock snorted, “You’re also forgetting he had a ridiculous amount of weapons with him. I imagine he took some food they haven’t missed yet, as well, though he might have been planning on living off the land entirely.”

“Our best bet is to send a helicopter up to search the area and send a few troops into the nearby campgrounds.”

“He’ll avoid the campers, and his camp will be camouflaged. You won’t see it from the air. You might even walk right by it.”

“Then how do we _find_ him?”

“You don’t. I do.”

“It’s been over a week since he escaped from HOUND, at least five days since he entered the park. Even you can’t track a trail that old, especially since it’s rained since then.”

“I wonder if he had a tarp with him. I should have done a more thorough search of their shed,” Sherlock sighed.

“Sherlock! How do we find him!”

“You don’t. I do.”

“Damn it Sherlock!”

“Water, Mycroft. John can avoid people, trains, planes, and automobiles, but he _needs_ water. Eventually he’ll need to visit the lake or it’s tributaries. I will know John’s footprint-“ Mycroft scoffed, “I also have a comparison of the tread from Mr. Johnson’s boots which John appropriated. We can locate him that way.”

“That lake is 200 acres, not counting the reservoir, you can’t possibly walk that in three days!”

“I don’t have to. I just have to walk the side closest to the farm. John was smart in avoiding the first two farmhouses, but he’s too weak to continue that. He also has little idea of where he is. He won’t know how big the lake is, or if the other side is populated. He’ll avoid going around it. He probably went up or down it a bit to avoid being in a straight line from the Johnson’s farmhouse, but he’s also limited by the campground and dock locations. That narrows the search radius quite a good bit.”

In fact, it lowered it down to the northern part of the lake, just west of Silver Creek. Sherlock scouted the shore there, located one of only two footprints, determined which were John’s, and followed them back to his camp. John was set up with a lean-to, a small fire with a coffee-can stovetop, and had apparently also looted their recycling bin, as there were small cans and bottles everywhere. He had several of the cans full of pinecones, which he was burning to keep mosquitoes away, and the bottles full of water. Another can was being used as a cook pot, but it had been abandoned with John’s stew simmering in it. Sherlock glanced at the contents – mostly wild vegetation and what appeared to be rabbit. He tested the water.

“It hasn’t hit a boil yet. He’s nearby. Everyone leave,” Sherlock ordered.

“Sherlock, we are not…”

“Heavily armed, paranoid, and ready to kill UJ! Piss off!” Sherlock snarled back.

Mycroft studied him a moment, but refused to leave, “He nearly killed you, Sherlock.”

“I blame you for that. Don’t make me finish what I started in your office, Mycroft.”

They had one hell of a staring contest then, but for once it was Mycroft who backed down.

“Give him your gun,” Mycroft ordered a soldier, and Sherlock accepted it without complaint.

The second Mycroft and his men were out of sight Sherlock clicked the safety on and tossed it aside. He went back to stirring the stew with the nearby shaved stick. It didn’t take long. John dropped out of a nearby tree and approached Sherlock cautiously. He had a new beard growing in and it was rather fetching.

“Don’t you look rugged and manly,” Sherlock flirted, “Camping suits you.”

“You like this, you should check out my pine needle and moss mattress. It’s positively primitive.”

“I love it when you talk uncivilized.”

John grinned and shook his head, “I was going to call you. Eventually.”

“Oh? Should I have stayed in England and sat by the phone like a teenaged girl?”

“Then I remembered smothering you,” John continued, his smile vanishing.

“I’ll forgive you if you suck me off in your lean-to.”

“I’m dangerous, Sherlock.”

“So you’re going to do what? Hide here forever? With a store of weapons big enough to start your own militia? Also a bit erotic, by the way.”

“I only use them to hunt.”

“Still sexy, did you kill this rabbit that way?”

“I trapped that.”

“Show me your trap?” Sherlock asked, leaning back and trying to look wanton.

“You’re not going to lure me in with sex, Sherlock.”

“Oh, I disagree. It’s been months for both of us, months since my first and only truly satisfying sexual experience. If you don’t fall for it I’m just going to jump you and have my way with you anyway, so you might as well be a good little savage and come over here and take me in the most coarse and unrefined way you can think of.”

“Do you even _have_ lubricant with you?”

“No, but I’m sure we could…” A dozen men bursting out of the surrounding brush with weapons drawn cut Sherlock off and ordered John to the ground, “Damn you Mycroft!”

“You had your fun, now it’s time we got going.”

“I did _not_ get to have my fun!” Sherlock stomped, stamping his foot on the ground impatiently, “I didn’t even get his _shirt_ off!”

Mycroft gave Sherlock a shocked and disgusted look, “You weren’t really planning to-“

“Yes, I most certainly was!”

“In the _woods?”_

“Apparently he likes it rustic,” John snickered from the ground where a soldier was handcuffing, “Can’t say I’m into the bondage aspect, _darling_.”

“Oh, trust me, _sweetheart_ , I prefer your hands free as well,” Sherlock snarled in frustration.

“Not a chance. You’re being locked up where you can’t harm anyone else,” Mycroft stated firmly.

“Not happening, Mycroft,” Sherlock snapped.

The soldiers pried John up from the ground and marched him towards where they’d parked the jeep.

“It’s for the best, Sherlock,” John replied sadly.

“Like hell it is!” Sherlock snapped, pulled out his gun and very nearly put a bullet through Mycroft’s head.

The man fell while trying to evade Sherlock’s shot, and he scurried backwards as Sherlock advanced and the soldiers hurried to tackle him to the ground. John knocked one of them over by ramming him with his shoulder and Sherlock spun to shoot the other when Mycroft shouted for him to stop.

“All right! _All right!_ _Stop!_ Have it your way, Sherlock. Jones! Un-cuff the good doctor.”

“Don’t call me that,” John replied sourly, but allowed one wrist to be un-cuffed before tugging them both forward and latching it that way, “There. Compromise.”

Sherlock sighed in frustration, but slipped his gun into its holster again and slipped an arm through John’s.

“I mean it, Sherlock. I’ve been having flashbacks again.”

“You remember them this time?”

“Yes.”

“That’s good. I think you reached a turning point at the Johnson’s farm. Frankly I was expecting you to shoot Mycroft on sight.”

“Considering it’s a recurring fantasy of mine, so was I,” John replied, frowning over his shoulder at the man.

Mycroft straightened his clothes and followed along behind with a scowl in place.

“That’s a good thing,” Sherlock insisted, “Not the fantasy, but that you recognize it as one and didn’t act on it. You’re taking your independence back. Of course,” Sherlock leaned closer, “I’d rather it were me you were taking.”

“I’d rather the reverse. I’ve not had you inside me, yet.”

Sherlock looked at John’s face to see if there was hesitance there, but he was gazing at Sherlock heatedly from beneath his eyelashes. Sherlock smirked.

“I think that can be arranged.”

[CHAPTER THIRTEEN](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/42344.html)


	13. vincentmeoblinn | Not Suicide Ch 13

There wasn’t enough room for everyone on the jeep so Sherlock decided to sacrifice his seat for John, which meant he sat straddled in John’s lap.

“Oh for pity’s sake, Sherlock!” Mycroft snapped.

“Fuck off, Mycroft,” John snapped, eyeing up the detective in his lap. Sherlock smirked at the heated look on Johns face and leaned in to nuzzle him, “I’m so glad I stole a toothbrush and toothpaste from the Johnsons.”

Sherlock laughed and kissed him soundly, enjoying the lazy slide of lips and tongue. John was already hard and arching into his touch. Sherlock took a moment to marvel at the benefits of human contact deprivation and then he began undoing John’s trousers.

“Sherlock, I won’t last,” John panted, “It’s been too bloody long.”

“Mmm, then I’ll enjoy the sight and feel of you coming without the distraction of my own orgasm.”

“That makes me feel better… I think…” John gasped as Sherlock pulled his cock out and then set about freeing his own. John wasn’t joking. He was rock hard and leaking copiously.

Sherlock leaned back and simply admired John a moment, stroking himself to get closer to the edge. John realized what he was doing and pushed his hand away to take over, his calloused palm and fingers sending electrical impulses shooting down Sherlock’s cock and into his quickly tightening bollocks.

“Gods yes!” Sherlock panted, letting his head fall back.

“You’re so fucking gorgeous!”

John tried to lift his other hand towards Sherlock’s head, but the handcuffs cut him off. Sherlock smirked while John groaned out his frustration, then leaned in to kiss the man since that was most likely what he’d been reaching for. John moaned into his mouth and Sherlock wrapped his hand around John’s cock. John surprised him by wrapping their hands together so they thrusted against each other and into both their hands. A bump broke their rhythm, but Sherlock wasn’t about to complain about the road conditions when he had _John_ hard and panting beneath him. Mycroft, sadly, wasn’t above further complaint.

“You’re going to fall out of the jeep!” Mycroft snapped.

Sherlock gave him a two-fingered salute with his free hand and then wrapped it tightly around John’s shoulders, leaning forward to grind into their combined hands. John gasped, breaking the kiss and panting out his release. Sherlock moaned at the feel of the sudden heat and wetness, thrusted twice more, and came hard. His head spun beautifully and he was thrilled to find that neither foreplay nor penetration were needed to bring him to that glorious place John had taken him the first time. ‘Making love’ was apparently more about the person you were with and how you focused on pleasing each other rather than the actual actions taken. Sherlock laid his head on John’s shoulder and simply breathed in John’s scent, as the man was doing to him.

“You smell like heaven,” John confided in him.

“I imagine you do as well,” Sherlock agreed, pressing a kiss to his neck.

“I suppose you have a plan for cleaning that up,” Mycroft growled over the engine.

Sherlock gave him a disgusted look, “You are _far_ too interested in my sex life, Mycroft.”

Sherlock pulled a cloth handkerchief from a pocket and cleaned them both up while John smiled up at him lazily.

“I’m trying to figure you out, Sherlock,” Mycroft replied mockingly, “Sex has never been important to you, and yes, I’m aware of your experiments in Uni.”

“Wholly unsatisfactory. Apparently making love is better than having sex.”

Mycroft laughed out loud, but his humor vanished when Sherlock and John scowled at him.

“You two are actually serious?” He asked, “What a load of utter _nonsense_.”

“Begging your pardon, sirs,” Spoke up the soldier to Sherlock’s left, “but he’s right. Making love is better.”

“Perhaps if you took Lestrade to bed you would feel the way we do,” Sherlock mocked.

Mycroft turned an amusing shade of puce and Sherlock tucked himself back into his pants while John did the same. Then they snuggled together for the remainder of the ride.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

They had trouble getting John onto Mycroft’s private jet. He balked at the idea of being in a confined space and Sherlock had to sedate him. He took his shot calmly, of course, smiling at Sherlock apologetically as he did so.

“I’m just getting more and more fucked up, aren’t I?” John asked softly.

“No, love, you’re perfect,” Sherlock replied, kissing his forehead and tugging him close. When John got woozy he lifted his shockingly thin lover up into his arms and carried him onto the plane himself. He sat down across from Mycroft. “I meant what I said. I’ll never forgive you for this.”

“Sherlock, we are _family_. I’m sure you’ll get over _whatever this is_ with John soon enough. A case or two will settle you just fine.”

“That’s what you said when he was missing. That he’d planned it all to make himself a mystery and seduce me. You were _wrong_.”

“I had no idea Frankland was the one who had him. I thought John was working with his kidnappers, at least at first. He seemed content enough in his little cell.”

“He was waiting for me to _rescue him_.”

Mycroft studied Sherlock a moment, “Perhaps rescuing himself was far more healthy.”

Sherlock was about to answer when John squirmed in his arms and groaned.

“Nnnn…no. No, stop!”

“John, it’s Sherlock. It’s me, love,” Sherlock insisted firmly, hoping they weren’t going to be subjected to one of John’s terrifying fits. The three he’d witnessed were quite enough for one lifetime.

“Run! Run, they’ll kill you!” John cried out, but he clung to Sherlock like a frightened child and then burst into tears, “Please, Sherlock, don’t leave me!”

“I won’t leave you. Not ever. I love you, John.”

“M’love you, too,” John muttered, and then stilled in his arms.

“Perhaps another round of sedatives,” Mycroft suggested, fetching the kit.

Sherlock nodded and administered a second dose to John just before the plane took off.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

John woke up in the town car on the way home. Sherlock wasn’t surprised that Mycroft had declined to take the last ride with him. He was probably a bit tired of Sherlock’s taxing company by now.

“Do you need another sedative, love?”

“No, m’fine,” John yawned and stretched, “The car doesn’t seem to bother me. Maybe because the windows open, or something.”

“We’re almost home,” Sherlock reassured, running a hand up and down his leg. He meant to be comforting, but John looked ready to devour him again.

“I haven’t been this randy since I was a teenager,” John replied, “Fuck. If the sex ever gets dull between us you just lock me in a closet for four months and then let me loose on you. Apparently I turn into a testosterone machine.”

Sherlock laughed, “You went without any human contact for quite a while. It’s understandable.”

John tugged Sherlock close and nuzzled his neck, “So you won’t be annoyed if I’m a bit clingy for a while?”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” Sherlock chuckled as John’s beard tickled him, “Are you going to keep the beard?”

“Only if you like it.”

“Hmm, mountain man seems to suit your libido for now. Out of curiosity have you ever eaten a man out?”

“H-how do you eat a _man_ out?” John asked his expression baffled.

Sherlock grinned like the Cheshire cat and John looked both worried and aroused.

“Hmm, a shower for us both and then I’ll show you why I want you to keep that beard for a bit.”

XXX

Sherlock had been right: [the beard](http://image.toutlecine.com/photos/p/a/r/par-effraction-2006-24-g.jpg) was worth keeping for a bit, if only to hear the way Sherlock keened as he fucked him with his tongue. He’d been hesitant to perform such an act as rimming, but it turned out to be as rewarding as going down on a woman was. Sherlock was panting and John felt like a king for giving him pleasure. When he’d been reduced to incoherent half sentences John pulled back and grinned at Sherlock’s gaping hole. He wiped his mouth off on the towel he’d used to shower earlier and grabbed the lube. He was about to slide his fingers into Sherlock (he thought two could manage easily) when he recalled his urge to be filled by him. While he’d been incarcerated John had gone through every doubt and regret he had in life, one of which was that he’d never allowed Sherlock to top him when he’d so clearly wanted to.

“Sherlock? Do you want me to bottom or…”

“Anything!” Sherlock cried out.

John almost pressed his fingers in again, but then he shook his head. What if this was his last chance?

Instead, John climbed onto the bed, dropped onto his back, and slid a finger inside himself. He hissed in surprise, finding it to be shockingly erotic.

“You should go slowly,” Sherlock whispered, lifting his head to watch.

“Mmm, no. I was doing this in the cell. I only had spit then, this is sooooo much better,” John let his head fall back as he stroked his own prostate.

“Move your hands! Mine!” Sherlock snapped, pulling his finger out and replacing it with his own hastily lubricated digit.

“Oh, fuck your fingers are _long!”_

“Too much?” Sherlock worried.

“Mnm, not enough! More!”

Sherlock finger fucked him until John was begging for his cock. When he finally lined himself up, John was almost too jumbled with lust to lift up and watch, as the man pressed inside him- not that he could see much beyond his own engorged dick.

“Ohhhh,” John sighed, and let himself fall back against the mattress, “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this.”

“Yes,” Sherlock breathed, and pressed their lips firmly together as he took up a slow glide.

They moved slowly, stroking their hands across each other’s bodies. Sherlock seemed to want to memorize every single inch of John’s body. He sucked a mark onto each side of John’s neck and then insisted he do the same to him. When the burn became too much Sherlock gripped John’s thighs, pressed his face into his shoulder, and fucked him fast and hard. John gasped with every stroke to his prostate, his eyes fluttering as the pressure and pleasure built into frenzy. He was swearing like a sailor and Sherlock was moaning his name like a mantra. His cock was trapped between their bodies and the sweat-slicked glide was driving John wild.

“M’ close!” John gasped, and felt Sherlock swell inside of him as though in response.

To his utter bliss they came together, both riding out the pulsating waves of their orgasms with soft grunts and delighted cries. When they stilled it was to hold each other close for a moment. John was unsurprised to find he had tears in his eyes, but the feel of one trickling down his shoulder shocked him.

“I’m here,” John soothed, petting Sherlock’s curls as he sobbed softly, “I’m not leaving. Not ever again. I don’t care if you have to chain me up every night. I’m too selfish to let this go.”

“M’too,” Sherlock muttered into his shoulder.

John smiled, “Good.”

[CH 14 EPILOGUE & CH 15](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/42685.html)


	14. vincentmeoblinn | Not suicide Ch 14/Epilogue & Ch 15

John adjusted his bowtie and grinned into the mirror.

“Nervous?” Lestrade asked with a cheeky grin.

“Me? No. You’re forgetting I’ve done this before. When are you going to take the plunge?” John asked casually.

“Fuck no, never again!”

“You tell Mycroft that?” John teased.

“For the last time, I am _not_ with Mycroft! I don’t even know where you lot get this stuff from.”

“Mhm, you’re talking to John-I’m-not-gay-Watson here- soon to be married to a man. You don’t have to pretend with me, Greg.”

“I’m not… oh, piss off!” Lestrade laughed, turned and walked out of the small white tent. John gave his reflection another once over and then headed out.

John was the one wearing the white tux, but Sherlock was the one who wanted to walk down the isle (flashy git) so John stood beside the officiant beneath a tall white gazebo draped in wisteria. Sherlock showed up at the chiming of the organ and more strolled down the isle- practically dragging Mycroft along- than walked it. Sherlock wore a black tux with that damned purple shirt and no tie. Well, John would get him later. He’d found a naughty post on tumblr that had given him an idea and then insisted the wedding be on Monday just to utilize it. Sherlock was apparently aware of said tumblr because he was staring at John’s trousers as if he could see through them by force of will. John knew he couldn’t tell, though; he’d checked before donning them this morning. The officiant cleared his throat pointedly and several people chuckled as Sherlock tore his eyes from John’s crotch and gave the officiant an irritated look.

“Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today, to celebrate the marriage of Doctor John Watson and Consulting Detective Sherlock Holmes.”

John smirked at the titles. Sherlock had insisted, and he now gave John a saucy wink. Last week they’d made love while Sherlock pretended to be John’s superior officer. Gods that had been hot as fuck…

The officiant cleared his throat again and someone nudged John. It was Harry trying to hand him the ring.

“Oh! Right!”

Now it was John’s turn to garner some laughs.

He slipped the gold band onto Sherlock’s finger and then sighed happily as he slipped one onto John’s.

“With this ring, I thee wed…”

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

“And then Sherlock tells me he’s got to leave the crime scene, because _John_ wanted to ask him marry him!” Lestrade announced, drawing more laughter from the tipsy guests, “I couldn’t believe my ears! Well, John looked pissed as hell. ‘I wanted to _surprise_ you, Sherlock!’ he shouts. Sherlock just raises an eyebrow and says, ‘In that case you should have either put the ring in a different sized box or worn pants that weren’t _quite_ so tight’.”

The group burst out laughing again, and Lestrade finished his ‘best man’ toast by telling them both he was proud to work by their sides: “We're not jealous of you down at Scotland Yard. No, sir, we are proud of you, and if you come down to-morrow there's not a man, from the oldest inspector to the youngest constable, who wouldn't be glad to shake you by the hand.”

Sherlock blushed and smiled and John pressed a kiss to his cheek before Harry stood up to give her best man speech. A worried glance at her glass revealed it to be water… or vodka.

“My brother,” Harry starts off, “wasn’t fooling _anyone._ ”

The group bursts out laughing again, and John nodded his head gamely as Lestrade clapped him on the shoulder and Sherlock shook his head in amusement.

“That’s it! Cheers!” Harry announced as she raised her glass, downed it, and sat down.

Everyone was thrilled with the short speech and shouted her praises, but John leaned over to Sherlock worriedly, “Vodka?”

“Water. I made sure ahead of time. She’s just happy and has a better sense of humor than you do.”

“Oh, well, that’s a relief,” John snorted.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

“I hate dancing,” John stated through a forced fake smile as Sherlock led him out onto the dance floor.

“Well I love it, so you’d better get used to it Mr. Holmes,” Sherlock teased.

John blushed to his roots and smiled sincerely. His decision to take Sherlock’s name had left him stunned and beyond flattered. Sherlock swept John into a slow dance, pulling him close, and John gasped as Sherlock turned out to be grace personified on the dance floor.

“Maybe I _do_ like dancing. I certainly like not leading.”

“Now you know why I refused to do this during the dress rehearsal.”

“No… still not following.”

“I wanted to see your face _today_.”

John smiled warmly and Sherlock’s eyes danced happily. Soon they were joined by other couples on the dance floor, though Mycroft and Lestrade remained pointedly sitting while making eyes at each other.

“We have to do something about those two,” John sighed.

“Already done.”

“What?” John asked hopefully.

“I slipped a roofie- one of my own make, of course- into Mycroft’s drink and asked Lestrade to drive him home tonight.”

“Sherlock, you didn’t!” John asked in horror.

“Relax. Mycroft wants it; he’s just too much of a coward. Besides, I still haven’t gotten him back for all he did to you.”

John thought on that a moment, “I suppose that beats me eventually killing my brother-in-law.”

“Oh?” Sherlock asked curiously, “I thought you’d worked that all out in therapy?”

“Well, the unconscious, impulsive urges, yeah… now the conscious thoughts…”

Sherlock laughed and John laid his head on the man’s shoulder.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

“The coat room? Isn’t that a bit cliché?” Sherlock asked.

“That’s the _point_ ,” John growled, tugging him into the back of the room and fumbling with his trousers.

“Well if it gets your clothes off,” Sherlock smirked, and dropped to his knees.

John loved the excited grin that flashed across Sherlock’s face at the sight of the tight red pants beneath his white trousers.

“John, shame on you!” Sherlock teased.

“You think that’s bad, you should see the back,” John grunted as Sherlock pulled his hardening prick from the folds and suckled on it thoughtfully.

“Is that a request to bottom?” Sherlock asked as he popped off John’s cock before swallowing it back down again.

“It’s a suggestion you do a bit of reading before you tuck in,” John panted.

Sherlock grinned around John’s cock, popped off, and pushed on his hips to turn him around. Sherlock moaned at what he saw.

**Prop. Of  
S. Holmes**

“What, no big pair of gaudy lips?” Sherlock teased before tugging his trousers down and parting his cheeks.

John’s sassy reply was swallowed up by a groan as Sherlock’s finger stroked his cleft.

“Shh! Where’s the lube?” Sherlock whispered.

“P-pocket,” John whispered back.

Sherlock pulled out the tube and smirked at it.

“Don’t come,” He whispered into John’s ear once he’d stood again, “Once I’ve filled you up I want you to do the same to me.”

John nodded helplessly, his mouth too dry to reply.

Sherlock slipped a slick finger inside and quickly prepared him.

“Hard and fast alright with you, husband?”

“Fuck, yes,” John whispered back, loving the sound of that word on Sherlock’s lips.

Sherlock slid in slowly, gave John time to adjust, and then set up a fast pace. John bent his knees a bit and braced himself against the wall, his torso buried between rows of coats. He could smell cigar smoke and cloying perfume. It was so utterly cheap, so juvenile, that he had to give his bollocks a tug to bring himself back down from the brink.

“Like this, do you, husband?” Sherlock purred, “Want me to fuck you in the back seat of a car next?”

John whimpered and Sherlock stilled, his cock pulsing as it emptied into John’s clenching body.

“My turn, filthy man,” John growled, as soon as Sherlock had caught his breath and withdrawn.

John pushed his lover against the same wall, fingered his arse until he was whimpering, and then pressed eagerly inside.

“You’ve already had me in a car,” John reminded as he took up a punishing pace, “ _With_ people watching, but I do believe I owe _you_ a fuck in a lean-to.”

“Gods, yes!” Sherlock gasped, “On the ground. With pine needles.”

“They’ll stick in your pretty hair and I’ll have to pick them all out after,” John could feel Sherlock’s come dribbling down his thigh. It was unbearably erotic and he was painfully hard.

“P-pull my hair!” Sherlock gasped, and John gripped a fistful – enough not to be painful- and pulled his head back a bit, “Yes!”

“Oo’s in there?” A cockney accent demanded.

The attendant was evidently back from his smoke break, and the sound of his voice set John off. He groaned and came hard and deep inside his husband, giving him a few more quick thrusts before easing back and tugging his pants and trousers up.

“Fer pity’s sake!” The attendant snapped upon seeing them.

“We did rent the _entire_ building,” Sherlock reminded as he very calmly did his trousers up.

John burst out laughing and fled for the toilet to clean himself up. Sherlock would likely berate the man for a few minutes and catch up later.

_Gods, I love that man!  
  
_ **Chapter 1** _5_  
WARNING: This is an extra ending showing Sherlock's revenge on Mycroft- it is also Dub-Con. Mycroft IS able to give consent, but his mental state is altered a bit. _  
_

Mycroft’s heart was racing, his pulse was elevated, and he was harder than he’d ever been in his life. He’d already visited the men’s room out of sheer desperation and found that wanking barely relieved him. He’d come hard while biting his hand to stop his cries and then become erect again not half an hour later. To his absolute horror Gregory Lestrade wandered over just as he was contemplating shaming himself in the toilet again.

“Sherlock said I’m to drive you home tonight?” He asked.

The silver-haired detective was clearly confused, and well he should be since Mycroft had several personal cars and even more personal drivers all at his beck and call twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week.

“That would be appreciated, yes,” Mycroft replied as his cock twitched eagerly.

_I had to have been slipped something, but my mind isn’t blurred at all. In fact, my perception seems crystal clear, if not unduly focused on my genitalia and impending orgasm. Not to mention Sherlock’s rather inappropriate party favour of a small box of condoms and anal lubricant!_

Mycroft took Lestrade’s arm halfway through the parking lot and the man flushed and gave him an uncertain look. He didn’t pull away, though, so Mycroft decided there was still a rather good chance he could bugger him tonight: preferably repeatedly.

“Er, My, I don’t mean to seem rude, but… have you had a lot to drink?” Lestrade asked as he opened the door for Mycroft.

_Such a gentleman._

“Just a glass of wine with dinner and a finger of scotch an hour ago. I’m not prone to imbibing excessive amounts of alcohol. Do you need me to drive?”

“Oh, no, no. I drank a bit, but that was hours ago and I ate. I always carry one of these, anyway, just in case,” So saying Lestrade pulled a breathalizer out of his dash and gave it a puff, “See? Safe to drive.”

“A smart move, we wouldn’t want Sherlock’s favorite D.I. being arrested for DUI.”

“Who do you think bought it for me,” Lestrade replied dryly, and then paused, “Actually, I think he might have stolen it, but you can never be sure with him.”

Mycroft chuckled a bit and Lestrade started up his car while Mycroft texted his driver and told him to head home without him. He’d probably be scandalized, but Mycroft could care less. He was already looking for places to pull over. His home was far too distant for his needs.

“Where is your home located?” Mycroft asked.

“Shouldn’t I be asking _you_ that?” Lestrade laughed nervously, “Seeing as how I’m driving you home? I assume ‘London’, but…”

“I’m trying to ascertain if your home is closer than mine,” Mycroft stated, hoping the man could take a hint.

Lestrade swallowed audibly, “230 Theobalds Road.”

“That close to Sherlock? You’re just a stones throw away from him.”

“I wanted to be near St. Bart’s. You know, for cases and such.”

“That makes sense, I suppose,” Mycroft replied while calculating the distance between their location and Theobalds Road.

Too far. They’d take an hour to get there from this damned country club, even though there was likely no traffic at this ungodly hour. Mycroft glanced into the back seat and found it rather roomy. Well… there was a plus.

“Pull over as soon as you see someplace reasonably private.”

Lestrade swallowed again, but didn’t ask questions. He turned onto a dirt road and drove until they reached a bend before stopping. He was gripping the steering wheel rather tightly.

“Are you sure you haven’t had a bit much to…”

“Did Sherlock give you an offensive party favour as well?”

“Ahhhh, yeah, he gave me a… a sex toy.”

“Really?” Mycroft asked with honest interest, “What sort?”

“The vibrating penis-shaped sort,” Lestrade stated with evident distaste, “Look, if that’s what this is about I think you should know that they’ve got it wrong about…”

Mycroft cut him off by exiting the vehicle. Once in the cool night air he stripped off his tie, jacket, and cummerbund. Then he crawled into the back seat like the randy teenager he was beginning to resemble.

“Either you join me or I’m going to leave a mess back here all on my own. I _do_ suggest the first; I can promise you you’ll enjoy it. Oh, and bring your _toy_.”

Mycroft began to lazily undo his shirt buttons. Lestrade sat frozen a moment, his hand gripping the steering wheel, then he practically bolted from the car, bringing a purple bag gripped in one hand, and yanked the back door open with enough force to damage the handle. He slid in and started tugging clothing off. They were both soon stripped and snogging hungrily, Mycroft finding Lestrade’s hair to be surprisingly thick and lovely to grip. The man groaned hungrily and Mycroft reached down to grab both their gift bags from the floor. He slid a condom on himself first, because _damn it_ he was going there as soon as possible. Then he pushed at Lestrade’s shoulder until he got the message and turned around. They were both scrunched in, but Mycroft wasn’t about to open the door and bare all to mother nature, so he dealt as best he could. He squeezed some lubricant onto the his fingers, more onto the detectives inspectors entrance, and slid a finger in with a throaty moan from both of them. He gave the man time to adjust and then set about preparing him with gusto. Lestrade was panting and soon began to push back on his digits. Mycroft pressed Lestrade to lower his hips a bit- he had to put one foot on the floor- so he had more leeway and stretched out across the man.

“What about the toy?” Lestrade panted.

“Next time. If I don’t come _now_ I may go insane,” Mycroft panted as he pushed himself passed the first ring of muscles.

Lestrade groaned and they both stilled a moment before Mycroft began to thrust fast and hard.

“Fuck!” Lestrade gasped, “Not so fast, give me time to catch up!”

Mycroft couldn’t have slowed if he wanted to and stated as much. The man slipped a hand beneath himself, almost unbalanced, and had to give up on touching himself. Mycroft took pity and began to stroke him in rhythm with his own thrusts.

“Oh, gods,” Mycroft moaned as the pressure built fast and hard.

“An-gle do-wn,” Lestrade gasped, and Mycroft recalled he had a _partner_ in bed, not some rent boy, so he made an effort to find the man’s prostate. His find was rewarded with growling, eager vocalization, “Fuck yes! There! Oh, fuck, yeah! Ah! Ah! Ahhhh!”

Lestrade was climaxing hard, his come slicking up Mycroft’s hand, and the heat of that engorged member pulsing in his hand threw him over the edge, he came over and again, biting Gregory’s shoulder to stop himself from screaming. Mycroft slid out and Lestrade collapsed against the seat, panting and drenched in sweat and his own ejaculate. Mycroft eased the condom from his member and dropped it into the purple bag before nudging Lestrade to give him room. The man dragged himself into a sitting position and used his shirt to wipe himself up.

Mycroft was just starting to catch his breath when he felt his cock stirring again.

“Oh, no,” Mycroft growned.

“The rubber break?” Lestrade asked in concern.

“No, I’m bloody hard again!”

“Fucking hell!” Lestrade gaped, watching Mycroft’s cock grow again.

“I’ll be chaffed!” Mycroft whimpered putting his head in his hands.

“How the bloody hell have we not fucked before now? You’ve got the sex drive of a twenty-year-old!”

“I was avoiding it because I admire you too much, and I wouldn’t _have_ the sex drive of a twenty-year-old if Sherlock hadn’t drugged me!”

“Oh, well, I rather admi… wait, what? What do you mean _drugged_ you?!”

“He slipped something into my scotch. This is the _third_ erection I’ve had tonight. I had to debase myself to relieving one in the gentlemen’s!”

“Fucking hell. I just _raped_ Mycroft Holmes!” Lestrade stated in horror.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Gregory, I’m in full grasp of my faculties and therefore able to consent.”

“You’re on your _third_ erection of the night and you think you’ve got a grasp on your _faculties_ , do you?”

Mycroft paused, “I don’t suppose you’re ready for another go?”

“Fuck no! Even if I was I’m not taking advantage of you again!”

“Not even with that toy?”

Lestrade paused. Licked his lips. Glanced down at Mycroft’s twitching member. Licked his lips.

“Oh, fuck it!” Lestrade replied, and then dove for his gift bag.

“Gladly!” Mycroft agreed, twisting into Lestrade’s former position and presenting his arsehole.

XXXXXXXXXXX

“Sherlock,” John called as he joined Sherlock on the balcony overlooking the beach, “Mycroft’s driver just called me. He’s concerned because he was told to head back without Mycroft last night, but he just found out that Mycroft never arrived.”

“He went to Lestrade’s, then.”

“I thought of that, but he isn’t answering his mobile. I tried Donovan, too, since they’re in the same building, and she says she didn’t see his car this morning.”

“Did you text Mycroft?”

“No. No amount of concern can get me to do that.”

Sherlock sighed, pulled out his mobile and texted Mycroft.

**You alive? – SH**

**More or less, despite having fainted in the back seat of a car. Thank you for the gifts. Gregory also sends his thanks. His was quite… invigorating. – M**

“That was a visual I did _not_ need on our honeymoon,” Sherlock snarled, tossing his phone onto the bed.

John chuckled and headed for the shower, “Coming gorgeous?”

“Just let me delete that conversation from my Mind Palace and I might be able to get it up again this century.”

_  
  
_


End file.
